No Frontiers
by Tallera
Summary: **UPDATED THRU CHAPTER 12!!!** Sequel to "The Space Between." It's the end of the world as the Scoobies know it, and they feel......fine??? (WIP)
1. Chapter 1: The Demon At Her Side

Author's Note: Okay, just a few quick comments. First of all, this is the third story in a series, which has grown into my personal version of the season-six Buffyverse. The first two stories are "Little Earthquakes" and "The Space Between." It's not absolutely necessary to read those first, but it may save you some confusion. 

Second of all, the more observant readers out there may notice that these stories were originally posted by Tallera. Don't worry, I'm not stealing her stuff—Tallera is me! I just decided it was time for a new handle. So from now on, I plan to post my Buffy stuff as SoulSpiked. 

Third of all, a quick note just to clarify the timeline of my Buffyverse. "Little Earthquakes" is set sometime between "After Life" and "Once More, With Feeling." "The Space Between" falls, appropriately enough, in the space between the musical and "Tabula Rasa." This story is set after "Tabula Rasa"…sort of. In my Buffyverse, Giles hasn't actually left yet (he's still in the packing stage). Also, Buffy and Spike didn't do the macking thing in the Bronze…if you wanna know why, you'll just have to read the other two stories. ;) 

Fourth (and final, I promise!) of all, a personal request. Please review? I've got a super-special beta who reads most of my stuff, but I'd like to get feedback from a slightly broader audience. See, I've got these crazy aspirations of becoming an ACTUAL writer (of real-life books!), and it'd be nice to know if anybody else out there thinks I'm any good. :-) So any and every comment is appreciated, cherished, pored over, dissected, analyzed…you get the idea. Thanks in advance!!!!   


  


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NO FRONTIERS   
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by SoulSpiked 

  


Buffy grunted in frustration as she dodged yet another (_pathetically obvious!_)attack by her vamp opponent. "Is it…just…me," she panted, landing a powerful kick to the demoness' unprotected left side, "or are there…more of these…losers…hanging around…than usual?" 

Her choice of words merited a mock-glare from her lone ally. "By 'losers,' I hope you meant 'fledglings,' pet—'cause if you meant vampires in general, I might have to be offended." In a spinning flash of white-blond hair and flaring black leather, Spike's boot connected with a minion's jaw, stunning the young demon just long enough for the Big Bad to make good with the stake clenched in one fist. 

Buffy finished off the newly-turned girl with ease—though not without a pang, for here was yet another life she had failed to save—and looked over her shoulder in time to watch the remains of Spike's opponent drift lazily to the ground. "Well, whatever you want to call them," she replied, her shoulders slumping wearily, "they're breeding like rabbits!" She scrubbed her face roughly with one hand, as if that would help to erase the bone-deep exhaustion she felt. 

Spike sauntered over to lean against the headstone next to her. "And talk about the shallow end of the gene pool…" he muttered, producing a cigarette from nowhere and lighting up. "It's been common knowledge for years that this is the cemetery closest to the Slayer's home," he went on, bemused, "so why the sudden flocks of undead?" 

Buffy let out a heartfelt groan. 

Spike blinked. "Was it something I said?" 

She sighed. "No. But if you want to know what's up with the crowds," she continued with a resigned expression on her face, "maybe you should ask _them_." 

He followed her gesture to the gang of three oddly-shaped demons moving toward them. The trio was obviously trying to sneak up on the worn-out pair, but the clumsiness of their own misshapen bodies was working against them. The creatures were only vaguely human in form, with limbs too short and thick to mistake for mortal ones. Piss-green veins wriggled just beneath the surface of their pasty skin, and each grossly gnarled head was lit by two pairs of luminescent orange eyes. Their movements were jerky and exaggerated, as though they weren't quite sure how to use their muscles properly. 

Spike offered the Slayer a hand. She accepted it with weary gratitude, pulling herself painfully to her feet to face this hideous new threat. 

"Okay—you guys obviously didn't get the memo," she quipped, flinging a stake almost nonchalantly, "but that color combination went out _decades_ ago. You've really gotta have a talk with the people who do your makeup." The demon on the far left looked mildly put-out at the wooden shaft that suddenly sprouted from its throat. With a long-suffering sigh, the stumpy creature toppled like a tree. Buffy squelched an insane urge to call, "Timmmberrrrr!" and concentrated on taking out the dead one's two friends. 

"See what you did?" Spike was saying to the remaining two Uglies. "You just _had_ to go and offend her fashion sense. Do you have any idea how violent women can get over matters of color coordination?" He began stalking the slimy beast on the right, leaving Buffy to deal with the one in the middle. 

She reached into her sleeve for another stake (_hey, gotta go with what works_…) when the last demon shocked her by opening its mouth and…_speaking_? 

"But—but…what are you doing?" 

It was all the Slayer could do to keep from laughing. The monster's voice could've been a voice-over by Chip or Dale, one of the Disney chipmunks—high pitched and squeaky, like a tape playing at twice normal speed—and its tone was heavy with fear and…surprise? 

Buffy blinked. Twice. _Huh?_

"I'm sorry," she responded, falling back on her usual sarcasm. "Was I supposed to make a public announcement before I tried to kill you?" The whirling kick she landed on its jaw staggered the creature back several paces. "Consider _that_ your official notification." 

The demon just stood and stared at her, dumbfounded. "But…but, why are you _bothering_?" it asked dazedly. "What does it matter _now_, if we all have our fun, or if the Slayer slays…?" 

Buffy's eyes narrowed at the confounded hell-spawn standing before her. _Usually, they don't stop to ask the Big Questions, they just *fight*…!_ She sensed Spike come up behind her, having finished pounding the second Ugly into the ground. 

"What do you mean?" she countered. "Of _course_ it matters, slimeball—it's my 'sacred duty' and all that jazz, remember? Ridding the world of trolls like you? This ringing any bells?" 

But her embittered words seemed to be lost on the demon gaping at her. "B-but it's almost Time," it stammered, as she and Spike began circling, like vultures closing in on fresh carrion. "It's—that is, the Time, the—the Annealing has finally come…so why are you still—" 

The monster never finished its last question. With its eyes fixed uncomprehendingly on Buffy, Spike had been able to circle around behind it, unnoticed, and snap its neck. The two fighters warily eyed each other over the corpse of the unusually vocal—but acceptably dead—demon. 

"Yeuchh." Spike wrinkled his nose at the rank slime coating his hands. "Why couldn't we have taken him out from a distance, luv?" he grumbled, wiping his palms on the damp grass. Then he raised an uncertain eyebrow. "And what was all that bollix he was spouting?" 

Buffy frowned in thought. "I don't know—something about the…the 'time of a kneeling,' I think he said." She considered that for a moment. "What's so important about demons on their knees, that he couldn't be bothered to defend himself?" 

Spike favored her with a supple shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine, pet." He watched as she sighed again, rolling her neck to relax too-tense muscles. It wasn't just tonight's increased demonic activity, he knew; she'd been working almost non-stop ever since her 'miraculous' resurrection, and the strain was beginning to show. 

_She never manages to catch a break, does she?_ he mused sadly. _Does she ever have a moment to just be? She always has to be the Slayer, or the friend, or the family bread-winner, or the surrogate mother…I wonder if she even remembers how to be just Buffy? For herself?_

"Other than the fact that demons, as a rule, aren't terribly fond of abasing themselves in any way?" he continued conversationally. She fell into step beside him as he headed for the cemetery entrance—they'd both had enough of Slaying for one night. "Couldn't say…s'pose that means there's some heavy book-time in store for the gang, huh?" 

The Slayer nodded. "Yeah, I guess I'll mention it to Gi—" She cut herself off, swallowing the rest of the name around the sudden lump in her throat. "I mean, um…to everybody, in the morning…" Her eyes got lost for a moment amid the endless distance of the eastern horizon. 

_Just when I thought I was starting to get things back together,_ she thought dejectedly. _Just when life was starting to feel 'normal' again…less like death…why did he have to spring this on me now?_ True, Giles wasn't actually gone yet…but the date of his departure was swiftly approaching, and Buffy still felt betrayed by his decision to leave. 

Spike watched, his undead heart aching, as her eyes became glossy with unshed tears. _She never catches a break…_ He watched, half fearful and half admiring, as her chin came up and her shoulders straightened, with a visible effort of will. _Where does she get so much strength? It is part of the Slayer package, or is that just Buffy?_ That indomitable will, that unique brand of Buffy-magic, that utter refusal to allow the trivialities of life to defeat her, was one of the things the vampire loved most about her…but it scared him, too. 

_How much must it cost her,_ he had to wonder. _How much more painful must it be to shove everything aside like that, in order to keep up the façade?_ He knew that sooner or later, a price would have to be paid. _That's the thing about magic—even Buffy-magic—there's always consequences…_

Spike gave himself a little mental shake. _She's hurting—say something, you idiot!_

"Here's a thought, luv," he said, with sudden inspiration. 

She turned to look at him. _He's doing it again,_ she realized tiredly. _Trying to get my mind off of…things._ She was torn between gratitude for his thoughtfulness, and indignance at his presumption…but she was just too tired to maintain the anger. She settled on raising one eyebrow in a silent invitation for him to continue. 

"I'll head over to the shop and get a head-start on the research bit…maybe narrow things down for you and the gang, so you can all start plotting in the morning?" 

Buffy's other eyebrow joined the first on its record-setting ascent into her hairline. "Wait, let me get this straight—you're offering to help with _research_?" Her voice was high with disbelief. 

The vampire lowered his eyes, watching the scuffed toes of his boots as he walked. "Well…yeah, seems that way, don't it?" 

"Spike, you hate researching even more than _me_, if that's possible!" She stopped dead in her tracks, forcing him to pause in his stride and turn around to face her. "Okay," she narrowed her eyes at him. "Who _are_ you, and what have you done with the real Spike?" One corner of her mouth twitched as a smile threatened to break across her face, but her eyes betrayed the faintest trace of uncertainty. _After all, when you live on a Hellmouth, jokes like that can sometimes prove frighteningly accurate…_

Spike scowled; he hated being caught out when he was trying to be nice. "Oh fine—be that way, Slayer! Big laugh at the house-broken vamp, just for trying to be helpful—'he must have an ulterior motive,' right? Well, see if I offer to do _you_ any more favors any time soon…!" He made as if to stomp away in a snit, and was entirely unsurprised by the small hand that suddenly appeared, grasping his arm in an unbreakable grip. 

"Oh, come _on_, Spike—get a sense of humor," she groaned, frustrated. "I was just kidding!" Seeing that he was fully in 'Big Bad Pout Mode,' she relented a bit. _Wonder if he knows what a lethal weapon that bottom lip can be, when he gets all pouty?_

_No. *Not* thinking about Spike-lips!_

"Alright, fine—sorry," she sighed, then eyed him impishly out of the corner of her eye. 

The vampire caught her glance, and swallowed a resigned sigh. _She knows I can never bleedin' resist that look!_

"C'mon, admit it, Spike—you'd rather take your chances sunbathing on the French Riviera at noon than crack open one of those old, musty books…" 

The peroxide blond almost smiled at Buffy's playful manner, coming so soon after the blatant grief of moments before. It sent a rush of unaccustomed warmth through his unbeating heart to think that he was able to bring about such a change in her mood. 

"I'll have you know, pet," he replied in a superior tone, "that I used to be considered rather a man of letters—back when I was a man, that is." 

_That_ earned him an almost-carefree giggle, and a brilliantly wicked smile. "Oh, I remember—'William the Bloody Awful Poet!' Something about 'effulgent beauty,' right? Gimme a break!" 

The vampire rolled his eyes and glared, as they cut across Buffy's yard to the back porch. "Alright, now you're just askin' for it, Slayer!" he mock-snarled at her. 

Buffy rolled her eyes right back at him, crossing her arms defensively in front of her. "Oh, yeah—whatever, Mr. Chips!" She yawned hugely, and it was only half-feigned. "Look, as fascinating as this conversation has been, Dawn is probably waiting up for me." 

"Right, then." 

_It really is amazing,_ she thought, _how much he softens when he hears her name…_ Buffy had to fight down a tiny pang of envy at her sister's ability to inspire such instinctive tenderness in this soulless creature of the night. 

"Tell the Li'l Bit 'g'night' from me, then," he said, turning to go. 

"I will," she smiled in response. Buffy was halfway up the stairs when Spike's voice stopped her once more. 

"Buffy…" 

_Oh, great…it's that 'we need to talk' voice again…_ She stopped on the steps, but did not turn back to face him. "What, Spike?" 

_Won't look at me…not a good sign._ But he plunged ahead, anyway. "Um, about Giles…I know he's not on your list of favorite blokes right now, but you've gotta know…he cares, and he's doing what he thinks best." The vampire ground to a halt. _This was easier when it was in my head…_

Now Buffy turned to look at him, and his chest seized at the pain in her face. "Look, I don't like what he's doing, either, ducks…but you've gotta see, his heart's in the right place…and sod all else, right?" He took a deep, unnecessary breath. "I mean, we all stick by you, Slayer—always. Your Watcher—he's just got a messed-up idea of how to go about it. And the rest of us…well, no cause to feel all abandoned, luv, 'cause you've got more friends than most, and truer…and we're not going anywhere." 

Her mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. _How is it that he always seems to know exactly what to say, and when to say it?_ she wondered, bemused. She could feel her eyes filling with tears—some for Giles and her own misery, but most in gratitude, to the white-blond hair and expressive blue eyes standing in the grass of her backyard. _Damn those eyes…_ Whenever her bright, noisy world got to be too much, and she felt like just letting go (_just let go_)…falling forever and forever into the dim, quiet abyss that called with such sweet and terrible whispers to her wounded soul…those eyes kept her from succumbing to the temptation. They would prop her up with the sheer force of the emotion he no longer bothered to cloak, soothing her with the knowledge that he was trying to make her burdens lighter in any way he could…and strangely, just knowing that, made them weigh less harshly on her. 

Buffy thought back to the night in the Bronze…_was it really just this week?_ The night after the incident with the 'Lord of the Dance' demon. She and Spike had come to an understanding that evening, in the very spot on the dance floor where he had stopped her manic dance. He had allowed his feelings to shine through the usual Big Bad façade…and for the first time, she hadn't pushed him away. She had finally been able to acknowledge how much she depended on him…and honestly admitted to herself that she took comfort in his presence. That she…cared. That of all the Scoobies, he had become the one she instinctively turned to for support. That he was…her best friend. 

To say that it had been something of a revelation—for both of them—was an understatement. 

Neither had mentioned their newfound rapport since they parted that night on the dance floor, but in the days that followed, the undercurrent of nastiness (_okay…cruelty, even_) that once characterized their witty banter dropped away. One more piece in the fragmented mosaic that was Buffy's life had fallen into place, and with that addition—that of a demon, born of darkness but craving the light—her world became that much brighter. 

_What can you possibly say to that? To a demon in the guise of a man, who makes your life easier just by virtue of who he is, and what he represents to you?_

Buffy closed her mouth uncertainly, and finally gave Spike—who was visibly fretting at her long silence—a watery smile. 

When she opened her mouth again, her voice was tight and quiet. "Spike, I…thanks. You're…a good friend." _A good friend…_ The words felt alien on her tongue, but in a tingly, 'I-could-get-used-to-this' kind of way. 

The peroxide blond almost sighed with relief. _For a minute there, I thought I was going to be staring down the business end of a stake…!_ "Anytime, luv," he said sincerely. 

Buffy was the first to break their almost-electric eye contact. "Well, I ought to get to bed. G'night, Spike." 

"Sleep well, Buffy," he responded, turning to fade into the shadows of the back hedge. 

_He's still going to the Magic Box, isn't he?_ she realized. _He's going to spend the rest of the night cooped up in the shop, snooping through boring old books full of cramped little words…just so I don't have to._

As she dressed for bed, Buffy wondered for the millionth time, just how she had managed to get by before Spike had defected to the good side…?   
  


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	2. Chapter 2: Gathering the Troops

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Anya walked up the walk to the front door of the Magic Box, savoring the moment. _After I've run this place for years and years, _she wondered, _will it still give me a thrill, like the little 'zip' I feel when Xander looks at me? Or will all those things start to get old, as I do?_

As a demon, she hadn't really settled down for any length of time—'get in, do the job, get out' was kind of the vengeance demon's credo. No one really minded if you stuck around for a while to take pride in your work, but it was considered rather unprofessional to dwell on any one act of vengeance for too long. Such a fixation fairly smacked of…._emotional involvement_. The ultimate taboo. 

_"Efficiency, not empathy!"_ That was what D'Hoffryn had always told her. 

So it still came as a surprise that she never tired of the feeling it gave her to stick her key in the lock of the shop door every morning—no matter that she never had any customers this early on Saturday mornings! Opening up still gave her that rush…kind of a 'this-is-really-(_almost_)-all-mine' euphoria—like orgasms, or counting the money in the cash register… Those thoughts brought a dreamy smile to her face. Maybe her demonic memories were starting to fade, but…she was pretty sure these mortal pleasures were even more fun than that one time she'd taken vengeance on the Medieval prince, with the green puss and maggots… 

_Wait…that's not right…_

The key didn't turn like it was supposed to… The door was already unlocked! 

No thought of fear ever crossed her mind. In the town atop the Hellmouth, with its mystical infestations and frequent invasions by the hordes of Hell itself, the former demoness had had no real experience with armed intruders bent on 'mere' theft. And demons didn't usually pick locks…or leave doors intact, for that matter. Anya was filled with a sudden rage, that _anyone_ would _DARE_ to set foot in _her_ shop without _permission_—! 

She flung the unlocked door open; the cheerful tinkle of the bell was swiftly followed by the BANG of the door slamming into the wall. Her face was fearsomely red as she screamed, "_WHO THE HELL ARE YOU, AND WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY SHOP?!?!?_" 

At her unexpected outburst, the shop suddenly echoed with a loud _thump_ and a heartfelt, "Bloody hell!" 

Anya blinked. It was much darker inside than out, especially with the morning's bright sunlight. "Giles?" 

The black leather-clad figure on his back behind the research table gritted his teeth and rubbed the back of his blond head gingerly. "Do I look like the bloody Watcher?!" 

"Oh! Hi, Spike," the ex-demon replied, ire replaced by her usual perkiness. "What are you doing on the floor?" 

"Checking the ceiling for water damage—what does it look like?" Spike pulled himself into a sitting position, the better to glare at her. "I was just sitting here, minding my own bloody research, when some silly bint starts huffin' an' puffin' an' bustin' the door down, and I go tumblin' ass over fangs…" 

"Had your feet up on the table again, didn't you?" 

The vampire paused in his pained tirade, catching sight of his audience's amused expression. "Never mind," he sighed, stretching. "S'pose I was dozing off a bit. What time is it?" 

"Almost nine," Anya chirped brightly, making her way behind the counter. "Almost time for the shop to open!" She fussed over the cash register for a moment before Spike's words registered. "Wait—you're _researching_?" 

Spike met her surprise with studied casualness and a carefully raised eyebrow. "Yeah—what of it?" 

"Well, research isn't exactly your _thing_. I mean…well, actually, it's kind of like your 'anti-thing.' Most of the time, me and Xander and Giles do the research, Willow and Tara do the spells, Buffy does the fighting, and you just kind of pace around and look threatening…and say lots of very British things that only Giles seems to understand," the former demon said seriously. She was obviously confused, but still cheerful. "So, what's so important that it's got Captain Peroxide hitting the books?" 

Spike's other eyebrow joined the first in a race to see which could hit his hairline first. "'Captain Peroxide'? Oh, _very_ cute, ducks. Lemme guess—got that one from the whelp, right?" 

Anya hadn't the grace to blush. "Well, _I_ thought it was very clever of Xander to come up with it," she said defensively. "And anyway, you didn't answer my question!" She sat back in satisfaction, seemingly convinced that she'd won a point. 

Spike sighed (_just for show_). Verbal banter with this particular Scooby was always…a challenge. _A challenge you're not up to just now, mate…_ "Just something a demon mentioned in passing last night, to me an' the Slayer," he admitted. "Something about a Kneeling, or some such thing…sounded important, so I told Buffy I'd come in an' look things over, so she could get some shut-eye…" 

He trailed off uncertainly at the new look on Anya's face. All the color had drained from her cheeks, her eyes were wide, and she looked like she might faint. 

"Hey…you alright, pet? Look like you just saw a ghost." He tried on a small smirk. "I mean, I may be dead, but I'm a bit more substantial than all that…" 

"Um, Spike," she began, licking her lips nervously, "that demon…did he maybe say 'the Annealing'?" She enunciated the words very slowly and carefully, so he could hear the difference. 

Spike snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "_That_ was it! I knew 'kneeling' wasn't right, somehow!" 

There was an audible _gulp_ from Anya's direction. "The Annealing…" she breathed, as if to herself. 

Spike was—to coin a Scooby phrase—starting to get a bit wigged by the girl's antics. _Cor, I'm even starting to *think* like one of the bloody white-hats…_ "C'mon, ducks, what's got your knickers all in a twist?" 

Anya didn't even blink in response. Her face remained pale as Spike's own, and her voice was low and even, and decidedly un-chipper. 

"We need to talk to Giles. _Now_."   


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The bell at the Magic Box door tinkled for the third time in fifteen minutes as Giles slowly entered. Willow and Xander had already arrived, only to have Anya send Xander right back out the door again—with drink-and-doughnut orders. _And judging from the look on the Watcher's face_, Spike mused,_ the 'lots of caffeine' directive was a good idea…_

Willow suppressed a yawn as she joined Spike in eyeing Giles warily. "Um, Giles?" 

The Watcher's noncommittal response was halfway between a grunt and a snore. 

The red-head's brows knitted in concern, as Giles staggered over to a convenient chair and collapsed into it. "Are you okay? You aren't looking quite…yourself." 

Spike smirked at the elder Brit. "Yeah…lookin' a bit zombie-like, mate." 

Giles rolled a scalding eyeball in the vampire's direction and scrubbed a hand over his face. Speaking around a very dry tongue, he finally managed to grind out, "Once I've had my morning tea, whoever is responsible for getting me up at this infernal hour on a _Saturday_ will be required to provide me with a _very_ good reason…" 

Anya chirped at him from behind the counter. "Oh, that would be me! And Spike." She puffed up considerably, with a proud smile. "But it was really all _my_ idea!" 

The actual content of Giles' garbled response was partly (_luckily_) masked by the bell once more, as Xander reappeared, chatting with Buffy and Dawn. Skipping lightly down the steps, Buffy broke off their conversation and snagged one steaming cup from Xander's tray. Delivering it considerately into Giles' eager hands, she turned back to address the rest of the gang. "Okay, now that Giles is getting his liquid 'oomph,' he ought to be good for something in a few minutes. Mind telling me why I had to drag a _very_ cranky sister out of bed on a weekend?" 

Dawn's head shot up at that. "Hey! _You're_ the one who kept 'accidentally' falling back into bed, while _I_ made breakfast!" 

Buffy's eyebrow cocked in Dawn's general direction. "I don't think that a mug of chocolate milk and a handful of Cocoa Puffs really counts as 'breakfast.' 'Sugar rush,' maybe…" 

Dawn's only response was to stick out her tongue at her sister. 

Willow interrupted the pair before the situation could descend any further into familiar 'immature siblings' territory. "Okay, all well and good, but I'm still wondering: Anya, Spike…why are we all here?" She nodded her thanks as Xander handed her a styrofoam cup of coffee and a glazed doughnut. 

Spike got as far as opening his mouth to explain, when Anya jumped in enthusiastically. "Oh, it was so exciting," she raved. "I was on my way into the shop this morning, and when I got there, the door was _unlocked!_ So I _very_ courageously burst in and attacked the intruder, only…" 

The peroxide-blond was fast losing patience with the former vengeance demon's prattle. "Only it wasn't a bloody intruder," he interrupted. "It was _me_, just sitting here, doing some research, minding my own bloody business when this insane, screaming little bint busts in and bloody near roasts me with the sunlight!" He finished with a pointed glare in Anya's direction. 

"Well, _sorry!_" she responded tartly. "I guess I'm just supposed to _know_ that it's you, and not some evil, slimy, fangy hell-beast intent on robbing me of my inventory…or my hard-earned profits?" 

"Well, if you'd bloody _look_ before you go into the 'scream and leap' routine…!" 

Giles' hand slapped loudly against the surface of the table, startling the two combatants into momentary silence. "Well," he began very slowly and carefully, "I'm sure we're all relieved to know that the cash register is safe, and Spike is not dust. But…we are still waiting for an explanation." 

The quasi-demonic pair had the grace to look chastened, and Spike quickly filled the group in on the Fluorescent Uglies he and Buffy had fought, and the third one's odd conversational tendencies. "So, I was here researching when Anya came in, and she recognized the thing the demon-guy said, and told me to get y'all here, like it was the end of the world or something." 

Anya spoke almost gently into the silence. "Well…it is." 

But Giles was still focused on Spike's narrative. "Wait…Spike, you said you were in here…researching?" 

Xander had caught that, too. "Since when did Deadboy, Jr. become Mr. Research Man? Did I wake up on the wrong side of the dimension this morning?" 

"Spike, you don't even like being in the same _room_ as books!" Willow put in. 

Buffy burst out laughing. 

The vampire laid his head down and began beating it rhythmically on the table. "Yes! I was doing research!" Raising his head and glaring around at the group, he went on, "Believe it or not, the brain-dead vamp _can_ read! Spike read real good! And there weren't any good infomercials on the telly at three-thirty in the morning, so I had nothing better to do! _Alright?!?_" 

"Of course, if you say so, Spike…!" 

"Sure, whatever, Peroxide Boy…" 

"Oh, alright…sure…" 

Buffy was still giggling. She eyed the vampire through her lashes. "Can I say 'I told you so'? _Please???_" 

Spike's growl was far from sincere, as was the muted glare he threw in the Slayer's direction. "No." 

Giles cleared his throat noisily. "Ahem…well, to return to the topic at hand…Anya, you say you recognized this phrase, 'the Annealing'? What can you tell us about it?" 

Anya looked right back at Giles as if that was the stupidest question she'd ever heard in all her thousand-plus years of existence. "Well, it's…the _Annealing!_" She looked around at the sea of blank faces watching her quizzically. "What, none of you have heard of it?" 

The sea of blank faces transformed into a pool of exchanged glances and shaking heads. 

"Well, it's…" Anya seemed to be floundering in the wake of their incomprehension. "I mean, the older demons in Arash'mahar used to tell us stories about it. I remember sitting on D'Hoffryn's knee once, right after I was made a demon and they still considered me a child. I always wondered about that…I mean, I was still a grown woman, right?" 

She caught herself as Spike began thumping his head on the table again. "Oh, sorry…anyway, he used to tell us all about how if we were very bad little demons and demonesses, we'd be rewarded…but if we weren't awful enough, one day we'd be punished. If we weren't cruel enough, or had mercy on mortals, or let our former humanity override our nice, evil demonic tendencies, then we'd be helping the Time of the Annealing come that much sooner. He used to talk about it like it was the end of the world. He said there would be lots of—oh, I dunno—light…and pain, I think, and we'd be miserable for all eternity." 

Spike was still trying to wrap his brain around the idea of D'Hoffryn telling fairy tales to baby demons on his knee—_I mean, with the horns, and that poncey goat-beard?_—when the Watcher spoke up in frustration. "Yes, yes, I'm sure it was quite terrifying for you, but what exactly _is_ the 'Annealing'?" 

Anya stamped her foot in annoyance. "I don't know! I figured _you_ would! I mean, you're Mr. 'I-Can-Figure-Out-Anything' Guy, with the books and the Watcher stuff and the research…" 

Giles removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as all the other Scoobies began talking at once. 

"Oh, thanks, Anya…you're _real_ helpful! A bottomless pit of 'useless'!" 

"Bloody hell, girl! Why couldn't you mention this sooner?!?" 

"Geez, and you guys say _I'm_ no help? How come you let _her_ help research, and not _me?_" 

"Ahn, honey…we need to have another little talk about the right way to share information…" 

Only Buffy held her peace—because her 'Slayer radar', as she liked to think of it, started pinging. _Something's near…something not-human._ Beneath the ever-present hum her Slayer senses registered at Spike's presence, there was another, more sinister 'blip' that set her nerves on edge. _It's getting closer…_

The bell at the shop door tinkled cheerfully. The rest of the gang were oblivious, still engrossed in their verbal free-for-all. Willow's 'resolve voice' momentarily rose above the rest: "So, how are we going to find out about this 'Annealing,' since Anya's obviously no help…?" 

A new voice, rich and resonant, rang out from the space near the door, cutting across all the Scooby babble in an instant. 

"I think I might be able to help you with that, hon."   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 


	3. Chapter 3: Revelation

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


Shocked silence reigned. 

Buffy had spotted the odd stranger an instant before he spoke, and was already leaping from her chair, a stake appearing instantly in her hand, as if conjured by magic. She suppressed a sudden urge to growl as she leaped between the stranger and her friends, ready to defend them. 

_I'm growling now?!? Geez, I've been hanging out with the undead *waaay* too long…_ Then she grinned in malicious satisfaction at the way the stranger took several steps backwards in the face of her threatening stance. The scrape of a chair against the floor told her that Spike had also gotten to his feet, following her lead. 

"Hey, hey—no need for such posturing," he said, sounding unconcerned. "Your reflexes are impressive, I admit—but you might try turning them against your enemies, instead of your friends." 

Buffy's eyes narrowed dangerously at his arrogant presumption. "And how _exactly_ am I supposed to know which category you fall into?" 

The man's ordinary features suddenly creased in honest glee. "I was just _waiting_ for you to ask!" he bubbled excitedly. 

Before their eyes, the stranger's mousy brown-blond hair, everyday brown eyes, and unassuming clothes—an untucked and threadbare white button-down shirt with scruffy jeans—were…_transfigured_. His every motion seemed tinged with golden light, and his clothing shimmered like silk under the brightest noonday sunlight. His fingertips left trails of glimmering silver stardust in the air as he raised his arms, as if in supplication. His eyes flamed every shade from a long-lost Spanish treasure hoard, from burnished gold to polished silver, to every hue of every precious gemstone the earth has ever offered up into the coffers of kings and sultans, down through the ages. Even his skin seemed to glow, shining so brilliantly that the group could no longer look him in the face. And then he spoke once more…and his voice had transformed, as well—into a trumpet, a clarion call of such power and terrible beauty that never again could mere music inspire them, never again could ordinary sound hold the same savor, when compared to the sheer, glorious majesty of that voice. 

"Blessed are they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are spoken herein, for the Time is at hand! Thus say I to the servants of the Powers: I know thy works, and thy labor, and thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them which are evil. Henceforth, thou shalt hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the darkness shadow you, nor any cold defile you. For the Power which is in the midst of the throne shall feed you, and shall lead you unto living fountains of waters; and eternity shall wipe away all the tears from your eyes." 

As the stranger's unearthly monologue continued, he blazed with a sudden surge of radiant energy, and seemed to look each member of his gaping audience in the eye all at once, calling out with such force that his voice seemed to take on a substance of its own, pulsing against their eardrums with the liquid throb of blood through veins. The air was thick and meaty with power as he blazed on: "For I have seen the hour—it approaches swiftly on velvet paws! I have seen a new heaven, and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth are passed away, and Hell's dominion is at an end! And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor any more pain! For the former things shall be passed away…" 

Then it was over. The magnificent voice dwindled down to a reverent whisper, and the man seemed to diminish. The fire went out of his eyes and manner, and a moment later he was just an ordinary man once again, plain-featured and easily forgettable, in worn jeans and a dingy white shirt, with his hands stuck casually in his pockets.   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


Buffy blinked and raised an eyebrow. Giles looked rather taken aback. Anya looked like she wanted to say something, but changed her mind, and edged a little closed to Xander instead. Willow, her eyes wide, frightened marbles in her face, laid a comforting on Dawn's arm, which was trembling faintly. Spike simply took it all in, his eyes narrowing as the man's words planted a tiny seed of bright, terrible fear deep in the hollow place where his soul used to be. 

The Scoobies watched the man in silence as he nonchalantly craned his neck to the side and stretched, tendons popping. That simple, very human motion broke the spell cast by his speech, and eight mouths opened simultaneously to speak…but Buffy was the first to find her voice. 

"Well." _How do you follow an act like that?_ "I gotta tell you, most demons are a lot less verbal and a lot more with the kicking and punching—but the variety is nice. Very…original," she said conversationally, her body tensing back into a defensive posture, but less confident than before. _If that's how he *talks,* what the hell must he be like when he *fights*…!_

Giles cut her off before she could launch into the second phase of her patented 'quip-and-pummel' attack—adapted, of course, from the more traditional 'scream-and-leap.' "No," he said in surprise, as if just realizing something. "_Not_ original…" He eyed the stranger as if he were a particularly vexing translation, or a truly atrocious overdue-library-book fine. "You were quoting the…Book of Revelation, I believe?" 

The stranger smiled broadly and cut a respectful half-bow in the Watcher's direction. He seemed pleased that someone had figured it out. 

"I see," Giles went on. Then his face hardened into the look Willow had once dubbed 'Ripper-come-out-to-play.' "Who—_what_ are you, and why are you here?" he ground out. 

"Oh, yeah—now the official stuff's out of the way, we probably ought to sit down and hash out all the details, I guess…" the man responded, as if he'd just thought of it. He took several steps in the direction of an empty chair next to the table, but stopped abruptly when Buffy stepped threateningly into his path, her folded arms and tiny smirk screaming, '_just try it, buster_.' With a shrug and a wary smile, he backed up and settled himself on the step between the entryway and the main room of the shop. 

The group watched him with varying degrees of suspicion as he stretched out his legs—his leather sandals were just as scruffy as the rest of him, Buffy noted—and leaned back on his elbows. "Hi," he began, smiling disarmingly, "I'm the Herald. Feel free to call me Harry…everybody does." 

Anya's cheerful enthusiasm for retail finally won out over her caution. "Nice to meet you! Can I help you find something? We have some really high-quality chicken's feet, and a wonderful selection of crystals! Oh, I'm the proprietor of the Magic Box, my name's—" 

"Anya," the Herald supplied. "Ex-vengeance demon, engaged to Xander," he smiled indulgently. "And you would be Willow, and Dawn, and Rupert, and William," he continued, looking around the table at each surprised face in turn. "And this…this would be Miss Buffy Summers…the Vampire Slayer, the strong right arm of the Powers themselves!" he finished with mingled relish and awe. 

Buffy rolled her eyes at such a melodramatic description of her 'sacred duty.' "D'you guys remember back when I used to have a _secret_ 'secret identity'?" she commented with a sigh. 

The stranger—_'Harry'…how dumb is that?_—grinned at her, a twinkle in his eye that told her he was enjoying their confusion, just a tiny bit. "Well, it's true that the Slayer's a bit more effective when nobody knows who to expect—but hey, you're the darling of the Powers!" he went on cheerfully. "You think they don't know who they've tapped to do their dirty work for 'em?" 

The smile slowly faded from the Herald's narrow lips as Buffy, Spike, and Giles in full Ripper mode slowly advanced on him, identical pissed-off expressions on their faces. He could have sworn that he heard a growl emanating from their direction—although from whose throat, he couldn't be sure. 

Scrambling to his feet, Harry began to back away, his hands held defensively before him. "Hey, okay—I get it! No more games—lemme just get right to the point, alright?" He eyed them warily, trying a faint grin. "No hard feelings? I mean, you've gotta cut me a _little_ slack—it's not every day I get to come to the mortal realms and play the humanity game…especially not for something this big!" 

Buffy scowled and crossed her arms again, every line of her body conveying her hostility as Watcher and vampire came up to flank her. "Fine. Talk. But make it quick and make it good, or I'll smear your sorry ass all over Main Street." 

The man gulped, his chubby cheeks bobbing. "No problem, hon!" He took a deep breath. "Okay, so the Powers sent me to give the Slayer a bit of a heads-up that the Time of the Annealing is here. It's tomorrow, in fact." 

The homicidal glint in Giles' eyes grew brighter as he opened his mouth to speak, but the Herald cut him off with a raised hand. "Yeah, I know—you don't know what that means. Uh, it's kinda like…hmm." He paused, obviously groping for words. 

"Well, the Powers created all this—everything," he said cheerfully, waving offhandedly at their surroundings. "This whole dimension you call 'the universe,' and all the infinity of others like it. The Powers, they're Elemental…always been around, and prob'ly not going anywhere anytime soon. But you can imagine how _boring_ eternity could get, right? With nobody but yourself to talk to? 'Cause they've got different powers, but they're all still sort of the same Power…" 

He trailed off at their blank looks. "Okay, guess that's not important. The point is, they didn't create everything everywhere just to be _nice_. They needed some entertainment. And believe me, you mortals are better than HBO!" he bubbled enthusiastically. "I mean, it's like having an infinite number of channels, all completely different, and even though they _could_ know what's gonna happen—'cause they're the ones running the show, after all—usually they sorta decide _not_ to know, to keep things more interesting." 

Harry paused in his monologue, taking a breath and savoring the eight captivated faces before him. "But every now and then, mortal stuff starts to get too predictable, and it isn't fun anymore. Y'know, like when you get to know somebody so well that you start to know what they're gonna say before they say it? That's what the Annealing's for—when the Powers get bored enough to just wipe the slate clean, and start everything over completely from scratch, only with a whole new set of rules, to give 'em some variety. Like canceling an old, tired sitcom, like…I dunno, _Cheers_ or _M*A*S*H_ or something, and putting something newer and trendier in its time-slot…like _Seinfeld_." 

He nodded smartly to himself, pleased with his ability to explain the situation. "But they figure it's not…well, not real polite, I guess, to their mortal Hands to just snuff everything out without giving 'em a little warning, so…here I am!" He spread his arms wide and beamed at Buffy. 

"Isn't it _great_!?"   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 


	4. Chapter 4: Decision Carpe Diem

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


_Wait…tomorrow?_

Giles' brain felt like it was swimming in molasses. His mouth kept opening and closing in a pathetic imitation of a beached fish, as he tried to wrap his mind around everything the Herald had just said. Buffy and the rest of the gang were looking to him to clarify things, it was his established role—_dammit, Rupert, think!_

"So, let me get this straight," he began slowly. "Our existence—and all others, everywhere—is just a…a hobby the Powers That Be have come up with to keep themselves from being bored. And we're no longer interesting enough to them, so they've decided to eliminate all…all life and all existence everywhere, and start the universe—_universes_, sorry—over from the beginning…tomorrow." He looked to the Herald for confirmation and received an encouraging nod. "But, because Buffy is their Chosen One, they've sent you to…to forewarn her of this impending…end." He broke off abruptly, removing his glasses and rubbing them vigorously with his handkerchief, obviously deep in thought. 

"Wait," Willow broke in. Her voice sounded very small, and quavered in the sudden silence. "If the Powers are the ones doing the whole…Annealing thingy, they can't mean for Buffy to stop it—'cause…well, that'd just be silly! So why the warning? Why just the Slayer, and not everybody?" 

The Herald shrugged. "It's really just a courtesy, I guess. The Powers _made_ her—made her what she is, I mean, as the Slayer, their mortal right Hand—and they seem to think it'd be kinda rude to just…_unmake_ her without even a 'by-your-leave.' Everybody else, they'll just sort of…stop. But I guess maybe they want the Slayer to know what's coming…let her meet the end with her eyes open, y'know?" He shrugged again. "I'm not the one who makes the big decisions, babe, I'm just the messenger." 

Dawn's voice was quiet, but firm. "What's going to happen to us, to all the mortals, when…?" she trailed off, her meaning clear. 

Maybe it was Buffy's imagination, but Harry's eyes seemed to soften somewhat as he turned to meet her little sister's frank gaze. His voice was still cheery. "The same thing that'll happen to everything else, hon. All the dimensions and the stuff in them are…well, kind of like those little game pieces in _Monopoly_—the car, and the hat, and the boot, and all? And the Annealing is like the end of one game and starting another. Only in this game, all the pieces are made out of bits of the Powers. I mean, when you're the only thing around, what do you have to build stuff out of, but yourself? So…it's like, you're playing the boot, and Buffy's the car. When your game's over, the boot and the car still exist, right? But the meaning they had during the game—the thing that said, 'the boot represents Dawn'—is gone. And if William, there, decides to be the boot in the next game, it doesn't change the fact that you're still Dawn, does it?" He smiled reassuringly. "When the Annealing comes, all the little bits of the Powers that make up you and your friends and all the mortal beings and all their realities, they go back to the Powers—but just 'cause the substance is gone, doesn't mean that they stop _being_ who or what they are, 'cause even now, you're just being what you are—a little smidgen of the Powers that happens to have the essence of a Dawn—only, with mortal memories. You'll still be you. You'll just be…a puzzle piece fitted back into the puzzle, instead of laying all by itself on the table." 

Dawn nodded seriously at the long, convoluted explanation. She didn't look any less petrified. 

Buffy turned enormous eyes on her Watcher. "Giles, what…" She wasn't even sure where to begin. "How can we be sure this guy's for real? I mean, he's talking about another apocalypse—god knows we've seen more than enough of _those_—but this time it's for real, and we're supposed to be _okay_ with this?!? Are we just supposed to take all this on faith??" 

A small explosion of giggles suddenly erupted from Xander's direction. Everyone turned to him with identical '_what-the-hell-is-your-problem!_' looks, but he only giggled harder. "Oh, come on—this isn't just a little bit funny? I mean, 'it's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine'?" They all rolled their eyes at that, although Dawn cracked a bit of a smile. 

Giles cleared his throat. "Yes, well…inappropriate pop culture references aside, Buffy makes an excellent point. What evidence can you offer us in support of this—this story of yours?" He stared at the Herald with nearly unalloyed British skepticism…the _really_ aloof kind. 

Harry looked a bit contrite. "Well, there's lots of things I could do…but what kind of hard proof do you think would convince you? I could tell you some of your most private secrets that you've never told anybody…but any half-decent warlock with an Eye of Horus could do the same." He ticked off each possibility on his fingers. "I could ask the Powers to change your reality for a moment—reverse gravity or turn the sky pink—but how would you know that wasn't some kind of mass hallucination or something? I mean, I may be an Elemental, but there's only so much…" 

"Hold on—_you're_ an Elemental?" Willow squeaked. 

"Well, yeah," Harry replied, as if it should be obvious. "Just a minor one, but I came from the Powers, didn't I?" 

Willow turned to Giles excitedly. "I can do it, Giles—see if he's really an Elemental, I mean! There's a spell in one of the really old texts…something about an 'ethereal thread' that temporarily ties a minor Elemental—not one of the actual Powers—into a particular dimension…it's the only way they can stay, and not get 'rejected' by reality, so to speak. There's a spell to detect the thread, and I can do it!" she declared, delighted with herself. 

Giles closed his eyes. "Willow…this is _not_—" 

But she wouldn't let him finish. "Look, I _know_ you don't like the way I do magic," she interrupted angrily. "But this is _important!_ We need to know what we're dealing with—if the world really is about to end…" she trailed off, dismayed by what they were discussing. "…and I think this is the only way we can know for sure," she finished plaintively. 

Giles rubbed the bridge of his nose again, and sighed. "Fine." His frustration was evident in his voice. "You're right, we need to know." He eyed her seriously. "But I _don't_ like it, and I don't want you taking any unnecessary risks! Understand?"   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


"Whoa." 

There was a long silence. 

"I mean, really…" Deep breath. "Whoa." 

Buffy nodded slowly. "You said it, Xander." 

Xander was just _not_ digesting this information well. "But, well…Will, are you _sure_ the spell went right? You actually saw the thready-thing? It wasn't just some…cosmic lint, or something?" 

The red-headed witch sighed and reassured her oldest friend, for the seventeenth time, "Yes, Xander, I'm sure. The spell worked fine—and it was there, all stringy-looking and rainbow-sparkly… He's for real—an Elemental." 

Harry was gone—not as in '_poof_', but as in 'walked-out-the-door.' With the Scoobies still reeling from the proof provided by Willow's detection spell, he had said something about enjoying a few "mortal pleasures" before they stopped existing…no one had really been paying attention to him anymore. Spike had taken him aside for a quick and quiet word, and then their celestial visitor had waved a cheery farewell, promising to return the next morning, in time to see them through the Annealing. 

The silence was deafening. For a while, Spike had remained in the shop, absentmindedly pacing up and down, and the sweeping swish of his duster whirling around his legs at every turn had been the only sound. Then Anya had accused him of wearing a hole in the floorboards, and he'd silently ducked into the shop's cellar, and out through the sewers. 

None of them could meet the others' eyes. They all just sat, drowning in the silence beneath the terrible weight of their own thoughts, eyes gazing sightlessly into the distance. What was there to say? Yesterday had been a day like any other…and then the sun rose. For the second-to-last time. Today, all the hopes they had cherished, the dreams they had fought for, and the plans they had laid…had turned suddenly to ashes. The end of everything was coming…and for once, there was nothing they could do. 

"Carpe diem." 

Seven pairs of eyes blinked at the quiet voice, as if waking from a restless sleep. 

Dawn voiced their shared thought. "Huh?" 

"Carpe diem!" Buffy repeated, with greater certainty. She turned to Willow. "Don't you remember? You told me that, the day…the day you and Oz got together! And I told you the same thing—only, without the Latin—that first night we hung together at the Bronze!" 

Willow blinked slowly. "Carpe diem…I remember," she said with a sad smile. "'Seize the day.'" 

Buffy nodded, her excitement growing. "C'mon, you guys!" She addressed the whole group. "Think about it! So, the world is ending—okay…not the best news. But do you really want to spend our last hours of life moping about it? Or do you want to really dig into what we've got, before it's gone?" 

She watched as the fire began to grow in their eyes. "And…well, when the Annealing happens, we're all going to be with the Powers." Her eyes grew faintly misty as she went on, "I've been there, guys. And I've got to tell you…going to a place like that is _not_ something to be whining about!" 

It was nearly magical, to watch some of the clutching despair drain from their eyes. Xander's shoulders straightened, Dawn's chin rose, and Willow even tried a tentative smile—though Giles still wore a pensive frown, and Anya's eyes remained bleak. They were all still hesitant to accept the alien concept of a _friendly_ apocalypse—and who could blame them? Humanity had been bred from the law of the jungle, and no amount of mere conversation could completely drown the deep-seated mortal fear of plunging into nothing…it was the same fear of the almost-man who first nourished a small bonfire at the mouth of a cave and watched the red-gold light flare against the eyes of the predator in the dark beyond…knowing that his life was tied to the flame, and that to extinguish one was to doom the other. How much more terrifying, then, to realize in the core of your being that the next sunrise will spell the end for not just one light, or one life…but _all_ life, across the planet and all the way to the silent reaches beyond the farthest star…_all_ light, snuffed in an instant of divine whim… 

No, that wasn't something to be shrugged off with a few words of wisdom. 

_After all,_ the Chosen One reminded herself,_ it's not like they know what's after. If they only knew—if I could show them—the peace, the beauty…god, I wish I could explain, so they wouldn't have to be so afraid…_

But soon they would see—of that, she was sure. Certainly they could see how, in a way, it would be almost a _relief_, to be freed of the responsibility they'd grown so dismally accustomed to…the weight of the world, and the saving of it, time and time again, was a burden suddenly lifted from their too-frail human shoulders. This apocalypse would demand of them no last-minute revelations, no eleventh-hour heroics, no long hours walking the razor's edge that outlined the Mouth of Hell. Nothing but a quiet night, a final dawn, and then a bright forever day… 

They would see. They would follow her lead, and she would show them _everything_… 

"Now," Buffy went on with a Cheshire cat grin, "what do you say we all spend some time having as much fun as mortally possible, and we can meet up later at the Bronze for one last group bash?" Her grin widened at the enthusiastic cheers that met her suggestion. "Alright, then!" 

The gang broke up into smaller clumps and began to trickle toward the door, the earlier strained silence now replaced by a cheerful babble of talk and laughter. Xander and Anya were obviously on their way home to engage in Anya's second-favorite activity—after counting her money, of course. Giles quickly made up his mind that the end of the world would be a sufficiently engrossing research topic to keep him occupied until it actually came to pass. 

Buffy took Dawn and Willow aside. "If you two are okay with it, I'd really like to spend some quality time with both of you…will you wait for me a minute while I talk to Giles?" 

"Hey, no problem, Buffy!" Willow replied. "You guys are the closest thing I've got to family…there's nobody else I'd want to hang with while the world's ending." 

Buffy smiled and went to pull Giles' nose out of the first of many dusty books, so she missed the brief look of pain that flitted across her best friend's face. 

Dawn, however, was quick to notice. With a glance at her sister's retreating back, she addressed the red-head at her side. "Um, Willow? Could I talk to you for a minute…?"   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 


	5. Chapter 5: The First Duty

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


"Wow—you really _are_ a librarian at heart, aren't you?" 

Giles looked up at his Slayer, eyebrows raised in his usual absentminded expression. "What? Oh, ah…" he smiled in mild embarrassment. "Well, I do have a bit of a penchant for esoteric lore, yes." From his seat at the table, he looked up into her intent face. "Are you alright?" he asked more seriously. 

She smiled a bit, cocking her head to one side as if surprised that he had to ask the question. "Yeah, I really am, Giles. I mean, sure, there's a part of me that's a tiny bit sad everything's gonna be over—no more chocolate, or smoochies, or weird Indian TV—but there's another part that's _really_ glad to be done with it all! All the problems, all the responsibilities, just—_poof!_—gone. I feel…_free_." 

The expression on her face spoke eloquently to just how true that was. Giles didn't think he'd seen her act so carefree since…oh dear, probably since the first few weeks of her sophomore year, right after they'd first met, and he'd still thought her a careless and irresponsible teenager. _How she's changed…_

"Buffy…" he stuttered to a stop, not sure how, precisely, to voice his thoughts. "I know…I know there are times when I may seem…cold…and I'm…I'm sorry for that. We are all, of course, products of the culture in which we were raised, and…well, mine is a bit more…reserved than most. But…if the world is about to end, I…I want you to know…" He groped for words once again. _Why is this so bloody difficult?!?_ "I want you to know that…almost since we first met, I have…I have thought of you as a daughter to me," he finally admitted, looking her in the eye with growing confidence. "And while you have caused me uncounted hours of worry and frustration, I wouldn't trade a moment of it away. I don't think I have ever…cared…more, for anyone…and I am certain that no one has ever made me prouder." 

Buffy stood motionless for several seconds while her eyes filled with tears. Then she flung herself at her Watcher, wrapping him in an enthusiastic, Slayer-sized hug. Between sniffles, she said into his shoulder, "I love you, Giles…you've been the best not-quite-father any girl could ask for! Thank you…for everything!" 

The Watcher closed his eyes as he felt his heart swell. "Thank _you_, Buffy. I—I'm honored." 

They pulled apart and smiled at each other. 

"So much for that stiff upper lip, huh?" she said with mischievous twinkle in her eye. 

Giles suddenly discovered how difficult it could be to reassemble one's dignity while wiping tears from one's face. "Yes, well…it may a bit battered, but I think it'll hold for one more day." 

"Yeah." Buffy idly ran her fingers over the leather binding of one of the books on the table. "Well, I'll let you get back to Happy-Research-Land…but you _are_ coming to the Bronze tonight, _right?_" She knew the club wasn't his favorite hang-out, but it just wouldn't be _right_ if the whole gang wasn't there, on the last night of the world. "I promise I'll make the DJ play something that's not just 'noise'…" 

He smiled down at her again. "Of course, I'll be there. But I intend to hold you to that promise." 

"Noted," she said, in a very bad imitation of a British accent. She stood there for a moment, then gave her Watcher another quick hug. "See you later, then!" 

He watched her rejoin Dawn and Willow, who seemed to be engaged in some rather serious conversation. _After all these years, she never ceases to amaze me…_ he mused fondly. 

With a mental shake, he drew his mind away from its contemplation of the many magical facets of his Slayer—his little girl—and returned to the challenge of unearthing any further information on the Annealing from his demon mythology texts.   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


"You miss her, don't you?" Dawn asked softly. 

Willow sighed. "Yeah. I mean, I love her…and it just feels so awful, knowing that she doesn't think she can trust me…and it's true, and it's all my fault," she finished miserably. 

The brunette laid a hand on the red-head's arm. "You should go see her today." 

Willow's eyes widened. "Oh…no, I couldn't…she doesn't want to see me…" 

"Oh, baloney!" Dawn countered. "She loves you, too—she told me so! The two of you just need some space to deal with this magic thing. But, Willow," she continued more urgently, "Tara doesn't know about the Annealing! If she knew that we only have one more day of existence, don't you think she'd want to spend it with you?" 

"Well, I don't…I don't know, Dawny. It's…complicated…" But even as she made her excuses, Willow's heart leaped at the thought of seeing Tara, even just once more, before everything ended…maybe telling her how much she loved her, and how sorry she was… 

"It's just so hard," she said slowly, as if even those simple words caused her pain. "We love each other, and I know we can work, but…there's just this _thing_ in between, and I don't know what to do, how to get around it…" She blinked back a solitary tear and swallowed against the tightening in her throat. "And now, all this," she waved a fluttering hand around the Magic Shop. "This is _it_, Dawn—the end of the world. Of _everything_. But there just some part of me that can't quite take it seriously, because it feels like my world ended this week, when Tara left…" 

Now a few tears escaped, making their slow, solitary journey down the curve of Willow's cheek. Dawn immediately felt guilty for trying to push the red-head into a reconciliation she might not be ready for, and comfortingly wrapped her arms around the older girl's neck. 

Willow hugged her back for a moment, then pulled away and nodded sharply to herself. Her chin came up and her shoulders straightened as she spoke firmly. "Yeah. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna talk to her. She's got as much right as we do, to know that 'the end is nigh,' right? And y'know," she went on, "whatever the afterlife is actually like, I don't think I could really settle in to enjoy it, if I still had this big, hairy _thing_ hanging over my heart…" 

Dawn favored the witch with one of the wise smiles that made her look so much older than her fifteen years. "I'm glad. I know she'll be happy to see you. And you never know," she said, with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Maybe she can come up with a few…_interesting_ ways the two of you could spend your last few hours on earth…" 

Willow blushed furiously, but was spared from answering by Buffy, who rejoined them after her chat with Giles. "So," she chirped, "you guys ready for some serious girl-time?" 

She couldn't understand why the other two girls suddenly burst out laughing.   


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	6. Chapter 6: The View from the Other Side

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"That was nice." A beat of silence, and then, "Can we do it again now?" 

The noise Xander made was half-groan, half-sigh, and one-hundred percent heartfelt. "Ahn, my darling…I'd like nothing better! But d'you think I could have another minute or two to recover from the last time, before we start all over again?" 

He loved his ex-demoness fiancée with all his heart, but there were times when he was forced to wonder about the "ex" part. _Now, the "demoness" part—no question about that!_ he mused with wicked satisfaction. Like most men, Xander was capable of overlooking a great many female personality quirks in favor of other, more…physical skills. Given the sheer magnitude of Anya's quirkiness, it was hardly surprising that her sexual appetites (_and inventiveness!_) were equally precocious. It made for a rather mercurial, but ultimately fun relationship. _You know you wouldn't have it any other way, Xander-ol'-boy!_

All the same, there were times when her enthusiasm could be a bit…much. 

This was looking like one of those times. He watched as Anya's delicate features settled into a pout, and the mattress quivered as she flounced over to lay on her other side, her back to Xander. She flung the most disparaging insult she could think of over her shoulder at him. 

"Men!" 

_For someone who spends so much of her time with her mouth open, she sure can cram a lot of meaning into a single word…_ Knowing he would soon be in _real_ trouble if he didn't soothe her bruised ego, he stroked one hand gently up and down her bare arm. 

"Hey, Ahn—it's not like I'm saying this just to make your life miserable! It's sort of a built-in flaw of the male species…like insensitivity, and a tendency to scratch in inappropriate places." He laughed weakly at his own humor, but stopped when Anya still wouldn't look at him. He paused for a moment, studying the hard, tense curve of her neck and shoulders, down to where they disappeared beneath the creamy bedsheets. _Is this one of those times I'm supposed to be the concerned fiancé, or one of those *other* times, when I'm supposed to go away until she forgives me for whatever I did wrong this time?_

He decided to chance the former. _After all, it's not like I can afford to wait three days for her to get over it…_ "Ahn? Um…I'm sorry?" 

She responded with a tiny sniffle, then rolled back over, an expression of displeasure still painted across her lovely face. "Oh, that's just _typical_, Xander! Why must you always assume that _everything_ is all about _you_?" Her voice took on a decidedly raspy tone as it mounted a steady climb up the shrill-o-meter. "Some of us have bigger things to worry about than how long it takes Little Xander to get back on his feet! I mean, there's that state tax refund I'm still waiting for that I'll probably never get now, and a whole shop full of inventory that's going to cease to exist tomorrow, and the possibility of spending untold eons mouldering in some slimy hell dimension to contemplate, not to mention all those international shipping fees that I'll never get to charge to the customers—so maybe you could try to be a _bit_ more understanding if I'm suddenly no longer in the mood!" Her challenging gaze would have been frightening, if not for the quicksilver tears rolling diagonally across one cheek to moisten her upper lip with the bitter tang of salt and misery. 

Xander blinked. _Okay, file *that* response under 'Non Sequitur'…if it'll fit, 'cuz that file's crammed kinda full…_

"Hold on a second—pause, rewind, and let's run through that last scene one more time, Ebert—" He broke off when Anya suddenly burst into a fresh bout of crying. If she didn't cut that out soon, he thought he might start hyperventilating. "Wait, what did I do _now_?" he asked desperately. 

"E-Ebert's th-the one who's _d-d-dead_!" she whimpered miserably around her hiccuping sobs. 

Xander went to roll his eyes at her theatrics, but stopped himself just in time. He'd learned that even something as simple as an eye-rolling could lead to a disastrous fallout, when dealing with Anya. He gently laid one hand on the soft skin of her shoulder, as it shook with the force of her tears. "Ahn—I know the great movie mogul would be touched to see how much you care, but can we go back to that thing you said about the slimy hell dimension?" 

Anya tried to skewer him with her gaze, but her red-rimmed eyes rather ruined the overall effect. 

"Okay, yeah…the end of everything. I remember _that_, but you heard what that Harry guy said—we're all going back to the Powers! That's not 'slimy hell dimension,' that's gotta be 'mystical heavenly-bliss dimension,' right?" 

His fiancée huffed at him in frustration. "Well, _yeah_, if you're _human_!" 

This time it took two blinks for Xander to recoup. "Okaaaay…still not seeing the hang-up, here." 

"Xander! I was a _demon_, remember? For, oh, I dunno, a good ten centuries or so!?! And now, here I am—a real-life human being for just a couple of paltry little years, and which one do _you_ think is gonna count, when they do the whole 'who's been naughty or nice' judgement-thing?" She pushed several stray tendrils of red-gold hair out of her face with one trembling hand. "I mean, everything that anybody's ever written about the honest-to-goodness apocalypse is all about the good little boys and girls getting their heavenly rewards, and the bad ones being shipped off to someplace all flamey and awful and having their fingernails plucked out and their guts done up in bow-ties and their skin flayed off really slowly and then dipped in big vats of salt-water, and…well, that doesn't sound like the way I'd prefer to spend eternity, thank you!" 

She frowned angrily into Xander's eyes, then added, in a sulky voice, "You can pick your jaw up off the floor anytime now." 

"Bu…bu…but…but Harry—he said that…that we'd all go back to…he said it was…_good_, he said…" Xander was completely dumbfounded. Once he had begun to accept the news of the universe's imminent expiration date, he'd been…sort of okay with the whole deal. Sure, there were things he wished he'd had the chance to do, experiences he'd never get to have, and that kind of thing. But to hear Buffy gush about how amazing her three months in heaven had been…well, it didn't sound like a bad trade. No more world…but hey, no more pain. At all. Of any kind. _Ever_. 

Never _once_ had he considered the idea that he might not have Anya by his side, to share in his newfound paradise. 

The possibility was…too terrible to contemplate. 

"I know what he _said_," Anya whined, "but…well, I just don't think that Elemental sound-and-lights guy was telling us everything! He seemed kind of…_weasel-y_." 

Xander shook himself out of the scary place his thoughts had gone. _Eternity without Anya…I don't care what kind of Powers these Be…they wouldn't do that to us._

Suddenly, the whole idea seemed utterly ridiculous. Anya was human. She had a soul. And it was a _good _soul. 

'Nuff said. 

"What? That's just silly, Anya. He was cool—in an 'I'm the All-Powerful Mouthpiece of the Divine' kind of way…like Alan Rickman!" Then Xander's eyes lit up and his brows performed a sudden, strange contortion, as a thought occurred to him. "Hey…you think God really looks like Alanis Morissette? 'Cuz if _he's_ really a _she_, there's gonna be a lot of religious-types out there feeling pretty silly…" 

"_Xander!_" 

He sighed. "Look, Ahn…you're _not_ going to any hell dimension—just _think_ about it. When Buffy died, she went to heaven—and she may be cool, but she's never been _perfect_. I mean—hello! This is the girl who boinked Angel's soul right out of him, which made him kill a whole flock of people, remember?" At her blank look, his train of thought faltered a bit. "Oh, well…no, I guess you _wouldn't_ remember, would you? But the point is…not exactly a spotless track record for the Buffster. So it's not about counting the good deeds, and the bad deeds, and plugging them into some equation—good and evil aren't like doing the Magic Box's ledgers. It's about…learning from the bad stuff and…trying to do better…I guess…" 

Xander floundered a bit in his explanation, trying to find the words to describe something he only partly understood. Religion had never been a big thing in the Harris household, but after five-plus years of hanging with Buffy, he felt like he'd become pretty well acquainted with the spectrum of fuzzy greys that made up the concept of 'good and evil.' 

"Here's another thing—what about Deadboy, Sr., himself? From what we've heard, he's off fighting the good fight in L.A., trying to earn his redemption or whatever. He was a _whole_ lot more evil than your demon-self _ever_ was…but now that he's got his White Hat mojo on, working for the Powers and all that, do you really think they'd send him _back_ to hell?" 

He gazed at her sincerely for a moment…before his natural whimsy reasserted itself. "Now, the peroxide poster boy, on the other hand—" he added jokingly. 

Anya looked only partly convinced. 

Clasping his love's silky hands between his own larger ones, he looked her in the eye and spoke gently. "I don't care what kind of awful things you did when you were a demon—you've come so far past all that, it's not even a blip on the radar anymore. You're a beautiful, funny, compassionate woman, with a good and generous soul. No one deserves a happy afterlife more than you." 

The two lovers smiled at each other, as new tears welled up in Anya's eyes. 

"And," Xander added, with a touch of his usual humor, "if _that's_ not enough to convince you…I know an even better reason not to worry about hell dimensions." 

Anya giggled lightly at the pompous pose he affected. "What's that?" 

He grinned wickedly at her. "Because without you, there won't be any heavenly bliss for _me_, and I know _I_ haven't done anything worth being sent to hell over!" As he finished speaking, he slid one hand beneath the sheets, slipping it up Anya's hip and beneath her nightshirt to her waist…where he began to tickle her mercilessly. 

They thrashed around for several minutes, waging an all-out tickle-war amid the twisted covers, until they found themselves wrapped comfortingly in each other's arms, their breath coming in giggles and puffs. 

"So," she smirked at him, "two orders of eternal heavenly bliss, coming up?" 

His hand traced a warm curve over her cheekbone. "Sounds good to me." 

A delightful glint sparkled in her eyes. "How about some more of the temporary, terrestrial variety?" 

"Yes, _please_!" 

As he pulled her head down for a long, warm kiss, a dim thought flitted across his mind—_wait…if they send Spike to hell, my eternity of heavenly bliss won't include the opportunity to kick his ass, and that's just not fair_—but then his brain was swamped by a tidal wave of a rather different sort of bliss, that rapidly eroded any capability for coherent thought. 

_And really_, a sarcastic mental voice mused, through a hot daze of feeling, _would an eternity without Spike be so bad?_   


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	7. Chapter 7: The Darkness Within

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The world was upside-down…spinning…_burning baby fishes all 'round your 'ead_… 

Nine paces from one stone wall to the other. Turn on one heel, almost military…a peacock's plume of worn black leather splayed out behind. 

The Herald's words resounded hollowly in his memory, slicing a little deeper with every echo. 

_"Sorry, buddy, but like I said before, there's lots of different Powers. Even though they're really just opposite sides of the same coin, there's the 'good' ones, and the…well, 'not-so-good' ones. Demons don't exactly come from the good ones—you know what I'm saying? So when everything ends, you go back to the not-so-good Powers…and she goes back to the good ones, the ones that made her. Tough luck for you, I guess…"_

Nine more paces. Long, stiff ones…hard desperation screaming from the tense contour of every muscle. Every movement screaming…screaming with a human voice…a warm, red rush of adrenaline and spicy fear, rich and cloying… 

Nine more paces…and nine more. Back and forth, a single path. Like a panther in a cage. 

And nine more. 

_Always comes down t' the numbers in the end, don' it?_

Nine tortured paces across a cold stone floor…twenty-two years of humanity followed by one hundred twenty-one of unlife…six dollars and ninety-five cents for a pack of cigarettes…uncounted strands of silicon tangled into a chunk of plastic no bigger than a fingernail…two dead Slayers…one hundred forty-seven days of walking death until the return of the third…a sky full of stars whispering thousands of thoughts into the ears of a black goddess…a continued unlife measured occasionally in millimeters of flesh or air between a stake and an unbeating heart… 

One love. 

One day left to live. 

One imminent eternity in hell…without her. 

And nine more paces. 

_It's not supposed t' be this way…_

Spike had never given any thought to death. Not _really_. Sure, after a hundred and twenty years of murder and mayhem, he knew his way around the physical aspects of mortality well enough…but it had never been _real_. It was just feeding, and they were just humans—Happy Meals with legs, right? Not exactly the kind of thing that would keep him up nights, wondering about it. 

He'd been so young when his humanity had died…William's head had been too full of rhymes and artistic fervor and shy, desperate affection to have any room left for contemplation of the hereafter. And then Drusilla, in the alley…and it all happened so fast, he barely had time to realize that he was about to die before he woke again and felt alive for the first time, wriggling upward through the newly-turned earth toward the black goddess awaiting him in a shaft of silver moonlight. 

A vampire can bring sweet death to a thousand souls each day for hundreds of years, and never stop to consider the reality. The panic and despair of the prey, realizing the end is upon them…the slow, creeping weakness and chill as their blood seeps away…the drowsy darkness that rises up with agonizing sluggishness to engulf them… 

To a vampire, it's just another meal. 

Most living creatures would consider eternal unlife a curse…but it brought with it two blessings. No conscience…and the promise of a quick, painless death. No need to waste away from some disease or cancer, or to look Death in the eye as he makes his slow, deliberate advance. No need to fear the pain or the darkness, either…for the darkness is home, and dust feels no pain. 

_Instead, I'm the lucky bloke who gets an engraved invitation to the Apocalypse—front row seat at the biggest show of all time. Watch it all go swirlin' down th' drain…right before they hand me my very own one-way ticket to forever, in a place without Buffy._

_Best way to define my Hell, I suppose. Anyplace that doesn't have her in it._

What hope was there for him? He didn't have—_or want!_—a poncey soul like Angelus. No pretty baubles to break that would make him human, like Anyanka. He'd been rebelling against the world for over a century…and now, Spike knew he was, finally, completely, cosmically screwed. 

_Dammit, it's not supposed to be like this!_

With a roar of anger and anguish, Spike paused his frenzied pacing to pound one fist against the rough-hewn rock wall. The sight of the blood on his abraded knuckles made him giggle, and the sudden sense of déjà vu that pulsed through him only made the world spin faster. He paused for a moment, straining to hear…would she be wandering around upstairs, like before…looking so much like an orphan that he couldn't decide whether to kiss her or drink her…? 

Lost in his spinning world, he shuffled over to the bed as if in a daze, sitting lightly on the rumpled sheets as the bloodied hand reached under the pillow as if of its own accord. It reappeared a moment later, clutching a thin, lethal-looking stake—a carefully-preserved memento of a recent patrol with Buffy. 

_It would be easier…simpler…_

_The coward's way out._

The blood trickled thinly across his knuckles, into the gap between his palm and his thumb. It ran over the sharp wood and soaked into the grain, dying it a deep maroon. The stake was thirsty for him…for the old blood sitting stagnant in his dead heart. 

But even as he yearned for the simplicity of dust, he knew he wouldn't do it. It really was a nancy-boy's way out. The world might finally be about to get the best of him, but he'd be damned if he didn't make the Fates fight to _earn_ every speck of dust in his undead body. 

_Bugger._

The worst of all was the realization that it hadn't even occurred to any of the others to wonder about his fate. True, he couldn't consider any of the Scoobies real _friends_—except for Buffy, of course—but when you got right down to it, they were sort of all he had. 

_She never even thought about it…about me…_

_Or she did, and just didn't care._

He couldn't blame her, of course. The pain she felt from being torn out of heaven and forced back into the mortal realm was still a gaping wound…every day, he could look at her and see the strain. The struggle to be everything for everyone, all the while clutching desperately at the frayed edges of her shredded soul, trying to keep from falling apart. There was an expression of weary resignation permanently etched behind her eyes…and every time those eyes met his own, his gut ached for her and yearned for her, all at once. 

_I may be an evil, soulless bastard…but I'm not *that* cruel._

She would be happy, back in her shiny heaven…no need to trouble her last mortal hours with his own plight. Happiness was, in the end, all he'd ever wished for her. 

But for himself… 

He was greedy. One of his few remaining concessions to the demon slavering rabidly within. He wanted—_needed_—to find her, see her again…just once more, before the end. To hear her voice, even if she yelled at him…to touch her…kiss her, maybe—if she would let him. To bask in her warmth, if only for a moment, so he could take that memory with him into the eternal darkness…and know that, if nothing else, she had thought of him as a friend. 

It would have to be enough. 

The world wasn't spinning so violently anymore. He'd made his choice a hundred years ago, when Drusilla offered him something effulgent, and he accepted…and now he would simply have to live with it. 

_Just not for very much longer._

Spike sat forlornly on his bed, still clutching the bloody stake, and waited for the sun to set.   


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	8. Chapter 8: Could You Run That By Me Agai...

Author's Note: The literary reference Giles makes near the end of this chapter is by T. S. Eliot, from his poem, "The Hollow Men." It's pretty famous, but I thought I'd cover all my bases. ;)   


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_So…if 'gbherivashinkali' is being used in its adverbial sense as a modifier of the spatial/temporal gerund form of 'juskinpalovahr,' would that mean that the demonic influence will rise in Burkina Faso on a Saturday, or in the southwestern coastal region of the United States on a Tuesday?_

Giles squinted determinedly at the lines of small, precisely-scribbled text hovering several inches in front of his nose. The prophecies were a rather garbled mix of original ancient Sumerian, derivative ancient Babylonian, and the hieratic script of ancient Egyptian, all translated (_rather badly_) into a single volume of Old High Latin by Galdinius sometime in the first century. The linguistic hodgepodge made deciphering them…a bit of a challenge. 

Then, he blinked, marveling at his occasional ability to overlook the glaringly obvious. 

_Knowing the usual tendencies of the demon realms…definitely Tuesday, on the Hellmouth._

There were some constants in the universe so reliable that they just didn't require confirmation by direct primary-source translations. 

"But I suppose that won't be happening anymore, will it?" he asked himself idly. With the Annealing suddenly scheduled for the next day, a great many of these prophecies had been rendered rather suddenly moot. 

He wasn't sure whether he found that idea thrilling or…disturbing. 

"So, do the books ever answer back?" 

Several of those books jerked and teetered in their precarious piles, as the table lurched beneath the startled Watcher's elbows. A scruffy hand, sporting fingernails bitten into ragged stubs, appeared from nowhere to stop one particularly spindly stack of volumes from toppling indecorously to the floor. 

Giles blinked nervously up into the Herald's smiling visage. 

With a devilish twinkle in his eye that belied his somewhat angelic nature, Harry saved the flustered Brit the trouble, by answering his own question. "I'm gonna take that as a 'no.'" 

Giles cleared his throat and deliberately repositioned his glasses on his nose in a vain attempt to salvage some modicum of dignity. Then he caught the cheerful, knowing expression on Harry's face, and gave it up with a resigned sigh and a half-hearted grumble. "Need a bell around your neck…bad as Spike…" 

Then he blinked, and frowned, as a thought occurred to him. "Half a moment…how _did_ you sneak up on me like that? I didn't hear the bell at the door…" 

The Herald's sunny expression dimmed a bit, as he plopped into a vacant chair with a satisfied noise. "Yeah, well…see, that's 'cuz I didn't come in by the door." Pulling one leg up over the other, he proceeded to remove both sneaker and sock. "I haven't been in a mortal body for quite a while—I forgot how _fragile_ they are!" he explained with a self-deprecating chuckle. "All that walking around, window-shopping…well, let's just say these shoes were starting to rub in a _really_ uncomfortable way!" 

With a bemused look on his face, Giles took a moment to appreciate the sheer, freakish irony of sitting in the Magic Box on a Saturday afternoon, calmly researching the end of the world out of mere curiosity, while chatting with the physical embodiment of a near-omnipotent Elemental being about the blister forming on its celestial heel. 

_This day has been so unutterably bizarre…can I really be sure that I'm not dreaming it all?_

The black-and-blue patch on his forearm, however, offered mute, aching testimony to the number of times he'd pinched himself, attempting to test that theory. 

"Still a bit much, ain't it?" Harry's eyes were sympathetic as he watched Giles' internal struggle. 

The bewildered lines carved between the Watcher's eyebrows did not soften, and his voice was preoccupied. "Oh, ah…yes—yes, I suppose it is…" Eyeing his non-human companion, Giles went on. "So, what…er—why are you here…again? That is—can I help you?" 

Harry ran one hand up the back of his hair in sudden…embarrassment? "Actually, it's kind of silly, but…well, I was hoping I could just hang out here—for a little while, I mean. See, I sort of got in…a little early." 

Giles blinked. _Who would have suspected that an Elemental could blush?_

_Or that I would ever have the opportunity to see it?_

"But I was just so _excited_ about getting to visit these mortal realms one last time, y'know? And with the Annealing on its way and all…well, it all sounded like so much fun, I just couldn't wait!" 

A bubbling, infectious enthusiasm was emanating from the Herald in almost palpable waves, and Giles couldn't help but respond with a small grin. Despite his immortal omniscience and dire tidings, there was something remarkably naïve and endearingly child-like about Harry. In a way, his all-too-human manner made it a bit easier to cope with the upcoming…events. 

Shaking his head slightly in bemusement, Giles set aside his worries—for the moment—and seized upon the unparalleled opportunity staring him in the face (_literally_). After all, he was sitting across the table from an _Elemental_…the possibility of picking its brain proved an irresistible temptation. 

"May I…er, ask you a few questions?" 

Harry responded with another knowing smirk. "A scholar to the bitter end, huh?" He slid down into his chair and put his feet up on the table, comfortably settling in for a long chat. "Sure—fire away." 

"Very well, then…" Giles shuffled through a stack of notes for a moment, then located the page he wanted. "A colleague of mine in Los Angeles has provided me with copies of the Nyazian prophecies, some of which include verses believed to pertain to the end days…" 

"Lemme guess—" Harry interjected. "Some of 'em are wrong." 

"Well…yes," Giles affirmed with an air of chagrin. "But that much is to be expected, when dealing with millennia-old prophecies written by a number of different sages. No," he went on, in a tone that was equal parts confused and excited, "there are two aspects which I find _truly_ confounding. First is the fact that there are events prophesied in these texts—some of them described in remarkable detail—which, now that the Annealing is upon us, shall plainly never come to pass. I…I don't understand how the authors of these verses could have had such clear and specific foresight of occurrences which we now know were, for all intents and purposes, elaborate figments of their imaginations. Especially," he went on, as Harry opened his mouth to reply, "when so many of the _other_ prophecies by the _same sources_ have proven so reliable in the past!" 

"And _then_," Giles went on with enthusiastic intensity, oblivious to the Herald's attempts to get a word in edgewise, "there's the matter of the coming apocalypse _itself_. In every text I've studied, the end days are supposed to be heralded by a time of great suffering and conflagration—war, plague, earthquake, flood, volcanic eruptions…any number of terrifying cataclysms, both natural and supernatural, resulting in staggering amounts of death and destruction. And yet," he went on, his brows drawing together in perplexity, "we've seen no significant increase in that sort of activity, on any local or global scale…" His shoulders lifted in a baffled shrug. "I can find nothing to explain why all the lore should be so uniformly misleading…!" 

The Herald stared at him blankly for an endless moment, seemingly lost in thought. 

Giles finally broke the silence. "Do you…er, that is…can you offer any insight into these inconsistencies?" 

The Elemental immediately snapped out of his fugue, and favored the Watcher with a devious grin. "Sorry 'bout that—just checking…my inter-dimensional e-mail, I guess you could say." 

His smug grin widened, if possible, at the befuddled expression on Giles' face, then he went on. "So…your prophecies don't seem to have all their ducks in a row, eh? Got a real simple explanation for that one—" 

He leaned forward, resting his palms flat on the table top, as if inviting the other man to lean in closer so he could impart a great secret. "Historic window-dressing." 

Giles' perplexed frown returned with a vengeance, flanked by a pair of uncomprehending blinks. "I—I'm sorry?" 

"Window-dressing!" Harry repeated jovially. "Hyperbole. Overstatement. The apocalyptic version of ancient PR. Exaggerated myths, for a more violent, less civilized age." 

At Giles' increasingly frustrated expression, the Herald sighed. "Alright…see, most of the mortals who wrote your prophecies were from all sorts of ancient countries—Assyria, Babylon, Egypt, the Sumerian city-states, and so on, but most of the sources you spend so much time ogling, _those _were written centuries later by Greeks translating from the originals. Then when the Romans came along, they did the same thing, putting everything into Latin…but, of course, those Roman scribes couldn't just _translate_ things…they had to put their own spin on the stuff," he said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at the foibles of mortal writers. 

"So you start getting all these tall tales of hell and damnation and apocalyptic destruction creeping in during the early Christian era, 'cuz all those sexually-repressed priests got together and decided to get their kicks by scaring the bejesus out of a newly god-fearing populace, and suddenly everyone's buying into the fact that the end of the world is a big, bad deal!" He shook his head, smiling slightly as his shoulders quivered with silent laughter. "You mortals never cease to amaze me…you really will believe anything, won't you? I mean, Elvis is _dead_, people—get over it! It's not like his music was that great, anyway!" 

For Giles, this was just one revelation too many. There had been too much information thrown at him over the last few hours, and he found himself unable to take any of it seriously for a single second longer. 

The laughter started slowly, bubbling up in his throat like a swig of warm beer, erupting from his nose in little snorting giggles. Then the giggles coalesced and multiplied into long, rolling belly-laughs, sparkling behind his closed eyelids as tears of mirth began to leak down his face. 

"So…so you're s-saying," he gasped between giggles, "that it's true, what Eliot said—that the world shall end not with a bang, but a whimper…!" 

"Or maybe even a contented sigh," Harry joked. There was an odd light in his eyes as he glanced sidelong at the Watcher—as if he were measuring the other man, and had found him…somehow wanting. 

"Well…" Giles took a long, deep breath and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, removing his glasses to wipe off first his face, then the lenses. "Well. I suppose it's not every day one is able to see the humor in an imminent apocalypse." 

The Herald winked jovially at him. "That's the spirit, man!" Then the Elemental bounced up out of his chair as if propelled by a spring. "Now, if you'll excuse me—" he said, hopping comically on one foot as he tried to replace the sock and shoe on the other, "I'm feeling much refreshed, and the end of the world waits for no one! So much left to do, to prepare…" He trailed off, seemingly deep in cheerful thought. 

"Oh, er…yes—of course," Giles stuttered. "I certainly didn't intend to monopolize your time…" 

"Ah, don't worry, it was nice chatting with you," Harry reassured him. "But I really gotta run. Catch ya later!" And with a wink and wave, he vanished. Without using the door. 

Giles could only shake his head slowly, a bemused little smile on his face. Once again, he sat all alone in the Magic Box—his only company, that of a few brilliant splashes of rainbow sunlight sparkling off the many crystals and trinkets attractively arranged on the shelves. 

_This is the way the world ends…not with a bang, but a whimper…_

But suddenly, that thought was no longer amusing. Rather, it left Giles with a hollow ache inside…and the merry colors spattered across the walls and floor seemed to mock his earlier laughter. Soon those tiny things of beauty—nothing more complicated than the glittering facets of a crystal in the sunlight, or the scent of a ripe nectarine on a bright July afternoon, or the love in a mother's voice as she calls her daughter's name—all would vanish without trace, without fanfare…unnoticed and unmourned, in the shimmer that would follow. 

Giles found the idea…disturbing, and suddenly he couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly _wrong_… 

Then he shook himself, even cracking a self-deprecating grin at his own fatalism. 

_Stop being a silly git, Rupert!_ It was just so—so _unnatural_, to watch the end to all their struggling creep closer and closer, and not feel obliged to beat it back. _What does Tara call it? 'Assume crash positions'?_

With a swift nod, he slipped one hand beneath the cover of the book on the table in front of him, and flipped it closed with a _snap_ of utter finality. There was one, last beautiful day happening out there, beyond the front door of the shop, and he'd be damned if he let it pass him by, as he had so many before it. 

With a small smile on his face and an uncharacteristic spring in his step, Rupert Giles tossed his tweed jacket over a chair, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and strolled casually out into the sunshine. A tune came unbidden into his head, and before he stopped to think about it, he was whistling. 

The bell tinkled lightly as the shop door swung closed behind him, but the song on his lips floated back through the window, which was opened slightly to catch the midday breeze. The merry notes swirled about the well-kept shop on a fragrant draft, past the shelves full of crystals…past Anya's beloved cash register…past the jars of lizard glands and chicken feet and mandrake roots…and past an unassuming book entitled _Glamours, Charms and Illusions of the Daemon Realms_, stacked second-from-the-top in his pile of abandoned texts. 

The melody echoed…re-echoed…and slowly faded, eddying in Giles' cheerful wake like a freshly-slain vampire's dust on a puff of wind, carrying with it an ancient stench of doom and decay… 

_The sun will come out…tomorrow…bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow…there'll be sun…_   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 


	9. Chapter 9: The Hardest Words

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


It had been a good day. 

Not the kind of super-amazing day that felt like big, twirly fireballs of excitement shooting straight through you, making your insides all jiggly and leaving you breathless when you finally tumble into bed at the end of it. No, this was the really, _really_ good kind—the one where you have the luxury of sitting around on a warm patch of grass in the brilliant sunshine doing nothing much, with people you really love to be with, and you're suffused with a warm feeling of utter perfection that's whispering to you, _these are the moments that life is all about_, because the Powers That Be are smiling down on you and all is right with the world… 

Willow took a deep breath of late afternoon air laden with a luscious cornucopia of floral scents, and let it back out on a happy sigh. 

She'd hated to leave Buffy and Dawn. The three of them had been sprawled out on the grass of one of the parks near campus, reveling in a sense of utter contentment as they snacked on a bunch of grapes and looked for shapes in the clouds… 

But there was something she had to do. 

_Like the man said, right? "I gotta go see about a girl."_

The walk from the park to Tara's dorm room wasn't a very long one, and Willow could already feel a whole flock of butterflies—_bats, even_—taking up residence in her insides. They were probably the second cousins once removed to the host of chirpy little thought-crickets throwing a party in her head. One of the really wild kind. With multiple kegs. Probably of that wacky Neandertal-beer. 

_What if she's not even home?_

_What if she slams the door in my face?_

_What if she won't listen?_

_What if she won't believe me?_

_What if she says she hates me?_

_What if she doesn't want to spend her last day on earth with me?_

_What if she's already found somebody else?_

The little bugs hopped and squeaked their way down an exhaustingly familiar path—Willow suspected that they might even be wearing a ring-shaped dent in the grey matter of her cerebellum. But just like before, all it took was one quiet voice to silence them all—that of a single cricket in a black top hat and tails, at the very back of her skull. 

_But…what if you don't go? What if you just sit and watch the world end, and never see her again? What if you never get the chance to tell her all the things you need her to hear?_

That last thought kept her resolved whenever the noise got to be too much, and she thought she might turn around and walk away. For the world to end, and lose any chance to look into her soulmate's eyes and tell her how sorry she was…how much she loved her, and missed her… 

_No! Nope, nope…not gonna think about that._ She wasn't going to let it happen that way. Because every time she thought about it, it was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of her lungs, and she had to fight to keep from hyperventilating, all at the same time. 

It was just like Tara had said, that morning when Willow's world ended for the _first_ time. 

_You did it the way you're doing **everything**. When things get rough, you…you don't even consider the options, you just…you just do a spell. It's not good for you, Willow. And it's **not** what magic is for._

Sure, she'd been talking about the magicks, but Willow had been doing a lot of thinking over the past week—between the bouts of moping—and she'd realized that even her recent 'spell-o-rama' was just one symptom of a bigger problem. 

_Been living in this brain for twenty years now, and I just now finally figured me out._

_I'm a wimp._

When it occurred to her, she was amazed that she hadn't seen it sooner. 

All her life, Willow had been used to things being easy. Her home life may not have been the most affectionate, but she never lacked for anything. Name-brand snacks, plenty of clothes—tastefully picked out by her mother—and her laptop was always equipped with the latest top-of-the-line accessories. She blew through school with perfect grades without much effort. She hadn't had very many friends…but when they were as cool as Xander and Jesse, how many more could you possibly need? Once she discovered the magical arts, she took to them like a blind person discovering colors for the first time, and before long, she was able to excel there, too. 

Always so easy. 

Then real life happened. Grown-up life—and not like they showed it on television, where nobody ever had to worry about anything but the _big_ stuff, like whether or not their husband was cheating on them with another man, or how much longer it would be before they could afford that beach house in Malibu. No, this was _real_ real life—the kind where all the little things can pile up so high over your head that you think you're going to drown, and you suddenly realize that every single other person in the world has the same deep-down fears as you do, and that sometimes life is gonna suck no matter _how_ good of a person you are, and that love sometimes isn't enough to bring happiness, no matter what the fairy tales say. 

Suddenly, nothing was easy anymore. 

Except… 

Then there was Tara, and she brought with her magicks like Willow had never experienced before. And if that first spell to restore Angel's soul had been like a door opening in her mind, then this new magic was like all the doors and windows exploding outwards, and taking most of the walls with them. It was a tidal wave of love and delight and power and euphoria, and she had been intoxicated 

Suddenly, magic could _make_ things easy. 

Why bother to do work by hand, when you could snap your fingers and have it done? Why bother to use the keyboard, when it was so much simpler to direct the computer with your mind? Why bother to go out and buy real party decorations to celebrate your best friend's engagement, when you could just _poof_ some into existence? Why bother to work through a fight with your girlfriend, when you could just make her forget all about it? 

Now that Willow had had a chance to really stop and think about all the things she'd done…how deep she'd gotten in…it made her feel all nauseous and twitchy, like she needed to take off her skin and give her soul a good scrubbing—with that awful snot-green soap, with all the irritating little pumice bits in it. 

_God, Tara…how could I have been so…_

_How could I have done those things?_

But when her lover's sweet voice echoed back through her memory, it sounded brittle and hurt. 

_You're did it the way you're doing everything…_

Always the easy way out for Willow. The cheap way. The won't-get-my-hands-dirty way. 

The coward's way. 

_Okay, then—no more of that, missy! Nothing but the straight-and-narrow for Miss Willow Rosenberg from now on!_

It was the Cowardly Lion in her that said it would be so much easier to just sit on her butt and wait for the world to end, because then she wouldn't have to face Tara's accusing eyes and say those three syllables…so long and impossibly hard to wring from her tongue, but they were the only possible first step on the path back to where life was simpler, and happy again. 

And she couldn't just _say_ "I'm sorry." She had to really, truly _feel_ it, deep down in the dirty black part at the bottom of her soul. 

And suddenly, there was the door. 

Tara's dorm room door, staring Willow in the face…and it reminded her of nothing so much as one of those wooden flats at a carnival, painted with a scene, but with the people's faces cut out so tourists could take inane snapshots of their kids. The wide-grained wood that met her suddenly petrified gaze was the same. It had substance, tangibility…but no personality. No smiling face, no loving eyes, no inviting lips… 

_Could I ever be welcome here again? If the world wasn't about to end, that is…_

_Hey, now—no more of that Cowardly Lion thing!_

Willow took a long, deep breath, tasting the musty, recycled air that had witnessed the passage of hundreds of college students before her. Hundreds of people, down through the decades…all perched precariously on the cusp of adulthood, staining the air they breathed with the tale of their sweat, their laughter, their tears. The taste of all their little failures and successes was coppery in Willow's mouth. 

Then she let her breath out slowly, gathering her meager willpower, and raised her hand to rap deliberately on the wooden barrier before her.   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 


	10. Chapter 10: Without You

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


Tara lay sprawled on her stomach across the rumpled bedspread, trying to study for a pop quiz her professor had 'hinted' might be coming up sometime next week. The problem was, she kept turning pages, only to realize a moment later that she had no idea what the last section was about. Giving up, she flopped the oversized Art History book shut with a groan, resting her forehead against the cool, stiff slickness of its cover. 

_Can't take any more of this. Too mellow. If I get any more mellow, I'm gonna fall asleep._

_And that would be…not good._

Sleeping wasn't one of her favorite activities, this week. The actual 'being-asleep' part was usually just fine…but when she awoke the first thing she always did was feel around for the warm, Willow-shaped lump sleeping beside her…only to find that it wasn't there. 

Then she would squint at her surroundings, blinking blearily. 

Then she would remember why the institutional-white walls of the dorm stared back at her, instead of the soothing beige wallpaper and colorful prints decorating Joyce's old bedroom, the room she and Willow shared… 

_Used to share._

Every time she opened her eyes, it was like living through that horrible evening all over again…like waking up from a dream without a past, and watching the guilt and horror blossom in those beautiful hazel eyes, just inches from her own…the hot rush of anger and sick stomach-lurch of betrayal, as she gazed through her tears at the woman who had been her lover, and found that she didn't recognize her…feeling the misery pounding behind her eyes as she slowly packed her things, half-wishing and half-terrified that Willow would come in and beg her not to go…the added burden of Dawn's pain, her terror at the prospect of losing yet another surrogate parent… 

Tara sighed. _Why do I get the feeling I'm fighting a losing battle, here?_ She had tried _so_ hard not to think about any of it—to just go on living her life, and keep alive the faint hope that Willow might yet see the error of her ways, and reclaim her identity as the woman Tara had fallen in love with. But her brain was being sneaky…if she didn't think about Willow directly, her synapses just ganged up on her, forcibly plying her with a thousand little memories…everything had a Willow-reference. There wasn't an aspect of Tara's life that wasn't permeated with random associations, each one warming her soul and shredding her heart by turns. 

_She's everywhere…_

There was a time when Tara had delighted in the realization that Willow had become her world, but now it was a bittersweet delight that soured on her tongue, as every thought reminded her afresh that what she thought they'd had was dead and cold…though she still wouldn't have traded a single one of those thoughts away for the price of the world itself, because they were all she had left… 

_Thonk-thonk-thonk._

The unmistakable sound of knuckles resounding hollowly against wood startled Tara out of her brooding. She blinked momentarily at the clock—_still too early for Casey to be coming by for homework help_—then recovered herself, slithering off the bed and padding softly over to the door. She peered through the peephole, more out of habit than anything else… 

…and froze. _Oh, goddess…_

_Shoulder-length red hair over a fuzzy turquoise sweater…shuffling awkwardly in place…back to the door…hands pulled up into sleeves…madly twisting the thick weave like she could wring blood from the wool…_

_Willow…_

Tara stood stock-still for a long moment, taking in the sight…and petrified with indecision. Part of her was dying to fling open the door and throw herself into the other girl's arms. Another part, slightly larger, recognized immediately what a terrible idea _that_ was…and wanted to do it, anyway. The remaining parts were still debating the issue, and not all of them had ventured their opinions yet. 

Her mind swimming with confusion and a roiling maelstrom of emotions, she backed slowly away from the door as though it were a wild creature tensing to strike, never tearing her eyes from the shrinking peephole. The bright splotch of auburn hair still visible through its distorting lens seemed to grow, expanding to fill her whole field of view…until Willow, hovering uncertainly out in the hallway, shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other, and the glow of her hair vanished from Tara's line of sight. 

It felt like waking up from an enchantment…like realizing that the floral sprig pinned to your sweater is actually a spell, keeping you in its thrall all unaware. 

_I can't do this…I can't face her! It's too fresh, I can't… Oh, goddess…it hurts…!_

She stumbled backward, clumsy in her sudden need to put as much space as possible between herself and the suddenly-threatening wall of wood that hid from her view the one person in the world she most loved and most feared. In her haste, however, she bumped into a stack of books piled atop her overflowing desk. The pile teetered for a moment, then fell, taking a decorative tin of assorted magic crystals with it on its way to the floor. 

Willow's head snapped up at the sudden clattering sound from behind the door. She took a tentative step. 

"Tara?" Her voice was shaky, and cracked dryly on the syllables. 

Behind the door, all was silence. 

Willow took a baby-step nearer. "Tara, are you there?" 

There was a small, barely-audible scuffle, like a swift, frantic shuffling of papers, before a hollow quiet once again descended. 

Willow closed her eyes against the ache in her heart. "Tara, please, I…" She felt the tears welling up, closing off her voice, and hated herself for that weakness. Crying was another easy out, a desperate plea for pity that she didn't deserve. 

Swallowing back the ache that swelled in her throat, Willow took a deep breath and let it out in a huff of determination. _She doesn't want to see me? That's fine. I deserve that. But she still needs to hear me out. I deserve that, too._

"That's okay—I understand. I mean, you don't have to see me if you don't want to. I…I get that." she turned away from the door and began pacing the small space of hallway outside the door, moving in small, random squiggles as though she needed the additional forward momentum to get the words out. "But…well, there's some stuff you need to know, so…I'm just gonna tell you, and then I'll go, and you won't have to deal with me anymore, for…well…ever. Which is part of the stuff. Which I came to tell you. Which is why I'm standing here…talking to your door." 

Willow was starting to get flustered. All the things she'd planned to say were slipping away even as she reached to remember them, like darting silver minnows spilled from a bucket into the ocean, slipping beneath the vastness of the waves, never to be seen again. 

Her pacing increased in intensity as she rambled on with growing desperation. "See, there was this guy, this morning in the Magic Box, and he was normal, but then he wasn't, and his voice was all big and his shirt started glowing, and he said all this stuff, and we were all like, 'whoa, no way!' And then later when I was talking to Dawn, she said I should tell you about it, because you deserve to know what's coming just as much as the rest of us, and also because if we've only got one more day to live I want more than anything to tell you how sorry I am for everything I did because with all of it I was so sure I was doing the right thing that I just didn't _see_ anything else and I'm not making a single _bit_ of sense here, am I?" 

Within the dimness of the room Tara crouched silently by her desk, one hand half-raised to pick up a book, listening to Willow's voice as it rose and fell out in the hallway. Most of what she said _wasn't_ making much sense, but that was the very reason for the small, soft smile that curved Tara's lips. The girl pacing outside her door sounded very much like the Willow she remembered…the one she'd fallen in love with. She almost stopped hearing the words…just listening to the cadence, the timbre…letting the music that was Willow flow over her, even as the redhead's tone became increasingly shrill. 

The flustered Wicca tried starting over, more slowly. "The Elemental guy explained everything much better…he said it's like we're those metal boots, y'know? Only, not the kind you actually wear! I mean like the Monopoly one, and tomorrow we're all gonna roll the dice just like always, except it's gonna come up snake eyes, or double-sixes or something, because we're not gonna get to pass Go anymore, because the Powers are just gonna _poof_ us back to being them, only we'll still be us, because we're really just them to start with…so it's this whole big thing with the world ending and all, only I guess it's _okay_ this time because it's supposed to happen this way except the Powers can't _really_ mean for it to happen this way because I can't believe they could send me to heaven if you were still mad at me because it wouldn't really be heaven if you weren't there with me, so…_gahhh!_" 

With a groan of frustration, Willow gave up out of sheer exhaustion, leaning one shoulder bonelessly against the doorjamb. She closed her eyes and cocked her head sideways to rest her temple against the lumpy carvings of the cool wood grain. 

Tara slowly rose from the floor, moving toward the door with slow, tentative steps as Willow began to speak again. 

"I didn't know what to do," she admitted. Her voice was low and tired, as if she were exerting all her strength merely to stay on her feet. "I'm not a grown-up. I'm not big and strong. I'm just…all I've ever known how to be is a scared, selfish little girl, hiding under the covers so the monsters won't get me. But there were monsters in the bed with me, too…and they…_changed_ me." 

Gradually, Willow turned her back to the door, leaning heavily against it. As her quiet monologue went on, she slowly slid down the wooden surface to the carpet, her legs pulled up in front of her. 

On the other side of the barrier, Tara followed her to the floor, one hand resting lightly against the thick wood grain as though she could reach through it to stroke the red-gold hair. 

"I remember when vampires first came into the school. Cordelia and I found the…the bodies. In a classroom. It was a Saturday…" She twitched her head to one side, trying to dispel the unwanted memory. "That was the first time the world almost ended." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "The first time Buffy…died." She unconsciously wrapped her arms tightly around herself, as if trying to protect herself from her own past. "I remember I told her afterwards, walking into that room…it was like stepping into another world. A dark, horrible place, where evil things cause pain just for _fun_. It wasn't the world I thought I lived in." 

She swallowed hard. "And then…Angelus, and…and Miss Calendar died, and suddenly there was this _thing_ I could do…a way I could help make the world ours again. Make it _right_, and _clean_ again…" Tears sparkled silently on her face, each droplet mourning a youthful innocence lost beyond recall. "But it wasn't _right_. It was just me, being afraid…letting some of the monsters crawl under the covers with me so they could fight off the ones still outside, and I could just hide. The more I did, the more there was to do, and still, nothing was perfect." She let out a sad little sigh. "And I'm so tired, Tara…" 

A single tear slipped past Tara's eyelashes to trace a trail of moonlight and ashes down her cheek. 

There was a long, weary silence on both sides of the door, broken by only the faintest echoes of two people breathing. It was several moments before Willow's voice once again eased into the stillness. 

"The guy who came into the shop today was a Herald from the Powers." She took a deep breath, then haltingly went on. "They sent him to warn the Slayer that the world is ending." 

"Tomorrow." 

There was a small noise from within the room, and Willow was swamped with a fresh wave of guilt, for having to be the bearer of the stunning news, and for hurting Tara…yet again. 

"I…I know. It's…hard to believe it. But we think it's true. And I thought that…that you'd want to know. That you _deserved_ to know." She struggled to squeeze the words from her croaky, tear-ravaged voice. _I have to get through this_, she reminded herself. _There won't be another chance._

"And also…" _Deep breath. Just say it, and then go._

"I needed to tell you, that I…I see, now, what you were trying to tell me. I was so blind, and scared…" She sniffled quietly. "What you are to me, is…so much _more_ than just love. You're not just my sunlight…you're every star in the sky—my whole universe. When I thought I…I might lose you…it made me crazy. I didn't think…I just…I was desperate. And wrong. _So_ wrong…" 

Tara's face was wet, and she pressed her entire body against the door, drinking in every word that fell from Willow's lips. A terrible flower was blooming in her heart…a tiny seed she hadn't dared to nourish, suddenly bearing fruit where there had been only a desert…and carrying with it, the sweet fragrance of _hope_… 

The tears were threatening to close Willow's throat again, but she swallowed back the ache. "I'm not trying to…I mean, I'm not asking you to forgive me. I don't deserve it." Her voice broke again as she leaned forward to wrap her arms around her knees. "I just needed you to know…I see it now. I see what I was…what I _did_. And I'm so…_so_ sorry for it…it's like all the lights have gone out, and there's no air…" 

Tara's breath hitched in a silent sob. _Oh, goddess…help me…_

Willow sniffled again into the quiet. "I just…needed you to know that." She sat for a moment, gathering herself, then stood up slowly, her muscles stiff and cramped with tension. "I…" She broke off, at a loss. _How do you say good-bye to your universe, on the last day of the world?_

Finally, she pressed one palm flat against the door, as though trying to commune with it, and found that her voice was steady again. 

"I love you, Tara. To the end of the world and beyond…you'll always be the best and brightest parts of me." She let her fingertips trail down the grain of the wood as she slowly walked away, down the sterile brightness of the hallway.   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


Tara sobbed silently against the door. She heard Willow's last, quiet words, and felt her presence gradually fade. 

_Too much…oh, goddess, it's too much! I can't…not again. I can't let her go…_

A sudden flame of desperation flared in her belly. Grabbing the doorknob for leverage, she surged to her feet. A harsh twist of the knob, and the wooden barrier parted before her. Tara half-fell out into the hallway, her legs tangled in the gauzy material of her skirt, then righted herself as she glanced both ways down the corridor. With no one in sight, she took off pell-mell for the stairs.   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


Willow wiped the last of the tear tracks from her face as she emerged into the brilliant sunshine. Her heart felt paradoxically lighter and heavier, all at once. She didn't for an instant blame Tara for not wanting to see her…but that didn't stop her from wishing, just once more, to see her. To look into her eyes. Or to hear her sweet voice say— 

"You hurt me." 

Willow froze, holding her breath. Later, she would swear that her heart stopped. 

Very slowly and stiffly, as if too much movement might burst the fragile soap bubble of unreality in which she hung suspended, she turned around. 

_Tara…_

The blonde girl stood several yards back, cloaked in the shadows of the dormitory's covered entryway, her large eyes fixed on Willow's own. 

"You r-really hurt me," she repeated quietly. Her voice was thick. 

Willow's lower lip trembled for a moment before she spoke. "I know." All she wanted to do was reach out…but her traitorous arms dangled loosely at her sides like limp rags. 

"You had a choice," Tara went on, fighting to stay calm. "And you chose the m-m-magicks over me." 

To that, there was nothing Willow could say. She bowed her head, crushed beneath the weight of Tara's judgement. She thought she'd cried all the tears in her body, but somehow, a few more stole out from beneath her closed eyelids. 

"So why do I still love you?" 

Willow shrugged defeatedly…then the words processed, and she froze again, mid-gesture. 

_Wait…wha…?_

Uncertainly, she raised her head, meeting Tara's frank gaze with her own fearful one. 

_No…she didn't just say…_

With a dancer's feline grace, Tara stepped down onto the grass, into the sunlight. The expression on her face was one of tenderness and wonder. "What happened…it happened. It won't go away." She stopped an arm's-length distant. "But it's past, and…memories fade." 

It was all the redhead could do to keep from fainting dead away. She looked into her soulmate's eyes, and saw a spark she thought she would never see again. 

"People can be forgiven." 

Four words. Nothing big or complicated. Just words. 

Just worlds. 

A slow supernova was blossoming in Willow's chest, foaming up in her brain…a light so brilliant, it scorched her from the inside out…searing away the darkness infesting the corners of her soul, bathing her in a healing radiance. It suffused every muscle, warming away the tension…smoothing the lines from her face, the aches from her body, and the wounds from her heart. A bottomless fountain of love and gratitude welled up in her throat, finally erupting on the throbbing crackle of a sob, straight from the pit of her being. 

The lean girl with the big eyes and the brilliant red hair slowly melted to her knees in the grass, her entire body shuddering with heart-wrenching sobs—soul-quakes welling up from the deeps within. Her blonde companion quickly sank down beside her, gathering her narrow, heaving shoulders into an embrace rich with love and soothing comfort. Words came to the blonde girl, dimming her kind eyes as though she were trying to remember a dream, or a memory long forgotten… 

_Love…give…forgive…_

Tara's generous lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile. Then she closed her eyes, and only hugged Willow harder…as if the strength of her arms could convey the depth of her love…and forever keep the monsters at bay.   


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 


	11. Chapter 11: Hallowed Ground

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


Spike knew he was brooding, and hated himself just that much more for it. But really, what else was there for a vamp to do, while waiting for the sun to go down, and the last night of his unlife to get underway?

Thinking about Buffy helped, anyway. He could get so lost in her…even just in the memories…

__

«Swirl of golden blonde and vanilla scent as she spun a kick at his face…»

«We're mortal enemies, we don't get time-outs…»

«Oh, Spike, of course it's yes…»

«You think we're dancing?…»

«You're the only one strong enough to protect them…»

«What you did for me, and for Dawn, that was real…»

«We're not all gonna make it…»

«I'm counting on you to protect her…»

«The hardest thing in this world is to live in it…»

«How long was I gone?…»

«I was warm, and I was loved, and I was finished…»

«Why are you always around when I'm miserable?…»

«You have had **so** too much to drink at this point, I am cuttin' you off…»

Spike's lips twisted into a wry grin, but the humor in the recollection didn't reach his eyes. He'd spent so long fighting it—fighting _her_—and now there wasn't a thing in the world he wouldn't give to have all those dry, hateful years back…to drown them, set them afire…

__

I'm gonna be a fireman when the floods roll back.

He frowned, wondering idly where _that_ odd thought had come from, then sighed…and stared, blinking, at the patch of light on the crypt wall. It had faded from white into golden-red, and from there into a barely-there grey, and he'd been so caught up in the memories, he hadn't even noticed.

He jumped from his chair and grabbed for the black duster that lay draped across the sarcophagus in the corner, cursing at himself in frustration for the lost time. Every moment counted now, because tonight was all there was…

Flinging the heavy leather across his shoulders, Spike left the crypt in a half-dozen long strides. Somewhere in the darkness beyond, a beacon of light was calling to him with an irresistible siren song. Just one more glance, one more word…and then, the whole world could go to hell, for all he cared.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


Buffy's heart was still light, but her steps slowed a bit as she passed through the ominous wrought-iron cemetery gates. This wasn't a graveyard she tended to frequent on her patrols. It was rather small and out-of-the-way, on one of the outskirts of town farthest from the blackened corpse of Sunnydale High and the Hellmouth it entombed…so as cemeteries went, this one didn't see much in the way of vamp or demon action.

Which was exactly why she'd chosen it as Joyce's final resting place.

It had been one of the many things she thought long and hard about, those first few frantic days after…when she'd been so grateful for all the decisions that needed to be made, because they kept her from really _thinking_. But she had been sickened by the idea of having to worry about boogeymen sneaking up on her—or worse, Dawn—while visiting her mother's grave. Joyce's place should be clean…sacrosanct, with no demons to trouble her eternal dreaming.

Though it wasn't like Buffy didn't usually bring her _own_ demons along for the ride…

And the gravestone itself was like a monster sometimes…a poisonous beast of pale stone and whispered sorcery, making her throat ache…sneaking up on her right before her eyes…before she was ready to face it…

Her knuckles whitened momentarily around the bouquet of day lilies and snapdragons she carried. The lady at the flower shop down the street from the Magic Box had said that lilies were the best way to say good-bye to a loved one…and Buffy knew that her mother had always had a fondness for snapdragons.

__

Not sad today…no sadness in Buffy-land! Today in Buffy's World is all about happiness and puppies and snuggles! Buffy had to struggle to remind herself that this visit was supposed to be different. Special. _I'll see her tomorrow…!_

"Hey, mom." She knelt carefully beside the narrow strip of grass that, even after so many months, was still a noticeably different shade of green than the surrounding turf. Buffy found the uneven rectangle of overly-brilliant growth somehow comforting. Even if it _was_ just the fault of a groundskeeper being unnecessarily zealous with the fertilizing spray…she liked to think that even the most insignificant of living things could flourish in Joyce's presence.

__

And even a few of the unliving ones, a pointed little voice muttered darkly in her mind.

To distract herself (_and silence that little voice!_), Buffy reached out to touch the polished chill of the stone, her fingers sliding lovingly down the slick face as if it were a warm cheek. A wan smile lit her face as she traced the rougher grooves of the letters—J…O…Y…C…E…S…U…M…M…E…R…S—and recalled the thrilling news she had come to relate.

"I brought you some more flowers," she began, conversationally. "Lilies and, of course, your favorite." A small frown creased her brows. "I dunno _why_ the cemetery people keep taking away the old ones, but I guess it saves me the trouble of cleaning up after myself." Now her smile was lopsided and self-deprecating. "Never been very good at that, have I? You always had to pester me…" She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. "It's kind of weird, actually, 'cuz now I find myself doing the same thing with Dawn."

Then her features were smoothed by a swift, brilliant grin. "But Mom, I've got the most _amazing_ news! You're not gonna believe it when I tell you…or, well, maybe you will. Heck, maybe you knew about it even before I did! I mean, you've probably got the inside scoop on all the celestial stuff now, right?" All day, the heady anticipation had been growing in Buffy's stomach, tickling her insides, so that she thought she might burst into gleeful giggles at any moment. _Heaven! I'm going back…!_

She took a deep breath, and launched into the story. "Okay, so me and the gang were researching this weird thing a demon said last night, and then this guy came in. He looked pretty normal at first, but then he was like, 'hey, I can help you with that,' and he…" Her tone was quick and light-hearted, and her attitude sparkled through the words in a way that it had not for several years past. Not since her first few months in Sunnydale—before the melodrama that had been her relationship with Angel—had Buffy felt so carefree.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


Spike stood several grave-rows behind her, in the shadow of one of the taller monuments, just listening. She sounded so happy, so…young. For as long as he'd known her, the Slayer had always been a little waif of a girl, with eyes too old for her youthful face. She was a force of nature…the brilliant passion of a shooting star and the wisdom of the ages, all wrapped up in a deceptively fragile package. He'd known her to be playful, sure…even a bit devil-may-care at times—_the silly little chit_. But never before had Spike been struck so forcibly by how _young_ Buffy was.

__

Not even twenty-one yet, is she? Cor…to've seen so much, and so little time… It made him feel old beyond any mortal measure. Old and parched…brittle, even, as though he might crumble into dust even as he stood there watching, as she tossed her golden tresses and laughed a high, carefree giggle of undiluted exhilaration, as she continued her chatty monologue to the solitary audience of the corpse beneath the grass.

__

«I died so many years ago…but you can make me feel like it isn't so…»

He took a deep breath, filling his dead lungs with air he didn't need, just to nerve himself up enough to face her…one last time. His fingers tightened convulsively around the two clusters of blossoms he'd brought, one for each of the two Summers women—_well, the two that spend the bulk of their time in the cemetery, that is_. Easing the oxygen gradually back out through his nose, Spike clenched his jaw, and stepped softly forward, through the low forest of stone and moonlight.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 


	12. Chapter 12: Echoes of the Past

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


"…so I was like, 'Jeez, guys—carpe diem!' Only it was actually Willow who said it first, a really long time ago, 'cuz I would _never_ have said that! You probably remember what a hard time I had with French…so forget about _Latin_, right?" Buffy chuckled again, then sobered slightly.

"Remember how I told you Willow and Tara broke up last week? With the whole forgetfulness spell-thing?" She nodded, as if to acknowledge her mother's silent response. "I guess it was pretty awful. But Wills didn't want the world to end and not have a chance to talk to Tara about it all…so she went to see her today."

"I don't even want to _think_ about how hard that must've been…" She swallowed convulsively. "One thing about most of _my_ break-ups," she laughed nervously, "is that once they're over, the guys tend to disappear…"

Then she ducked her head and scuffed the tips of the grass blades with her fingers. _C'mon, Buffy! Okay, so maybe you're a bit out of practice…but can't you make with the **not**-depressing talk, just for five whole minutes?_ She marveled a bit at the many facets of her changeable moods…and smiled again. "But when Willow came back to the house, Tara was with her, and they were holding hands…" She trailed off, basking in the memory of her best friend's joy. "So everything isn't as perfect as it used to be…but what with the apocalypse coming up and all, they decided to…um, 'accelerate' the making-up thing, I guess."

"So, the lovebirds nesting again, eh?"

Buffy didn't turn to look at him, but smiled lightly at the sound of his voice. "Hello, Spike."

Odd…how even when she didn't know he was there, his sudden appearances never surprised her. It just seemed so natural for him to always be around…for him to materialize as if by magic whenever she found herself alone. She still remembered a time, not so terribly long ago, when it hadn't been that way…but those memories now seemed hollow and alien. More like half-forgotten dreams…or the fractured reflections of a completely different Spike, seen through the eyes of another Buffy. Those old Spike-memories didn't seem to fit inside her head anymore…and she found herself preferring the more recent ones, anyway.

__

Well…the ones **not** involving lips, of course…right?

Spike swallowed hard. Now that he was here, and she was here, and he was seeing her again…he had no idea what to do, what to say to her. Somehow, he didn't think that '_hey, Buffy, just dropped by to ogle you a bit before the Powers bugger me off to hell for the next ever_' would go over very well…

"Just came to say good-bye to your mum, then?"

She could almost hear the awkwardness in the bleached vampire's manner, and decided to take pity on him. Levering herself off the ground, she turned to face him. "Well, less like 'good-bye' and more like 'see-you-soon,' but…yeah." She realized that her fingers were nervously lacing themselves together, and bent her head to watch them intertwine. "I guess it's silly…'cuz if I'm going to see her tomorrow, what's the point, right? But I sort of felt like I should." One hand pried itself loose in order to tuck an errant strand of blonde behind her ear. "I mean, it didn't seem right to leave Mom out, when I'm trying to spend a little time today with everybody…"

Then her eyes shot up to his, as though a thought had just struck her. "Wait, you weren't there this morning, were you? I mean," she corrected hastily, fluttered her hands in the air, "you were there for the important part, the big news…but you left before we all made our plans! You've gotta come to the Bronze tonight, though—we should all be together for our last night, right?"

She was looking at him expectantly, and Spike was predictably touched by her rambling invitation. The faintest ghost of a smile touched his lips. "'Course I'll be there, luv…wouldn't miss it for the end of the world."

There was that smile…the one that made her go all tingly! The one Buffy had mentally christened the "sweet!Spike" smile, that softened all the sharp edges and angular planes of his face, and made his eyes light up in that loving way that she knew was just for her…

Then she caught herself, and her eyes widened. _Huh? No! Eeeeww! **Not** going there! Bad thoughts! Bad Buffy!!!_ Suddenly flustered, she scrubbed her palms against her hips and became suddenly fascinated by the sight of something—_anything!_—that wasn't the expression on her vampire's face.

__

No, wait—arghh! Not **my** vampire!!! Nobody's vampire! My **friend**. Just friend. My friend Spike, who happens to be a vampire. My friend Spike, who has an aversion to sunlight and likes spicy buffalo wings with his O-neg and follows me around in cemeteries after dark with flowers and looks at me like I'm the only thing in the universe and…hey…wait a second…

Buffy blinked, then raised one eyebrow in bemusement. "Spike…you've got flowers."

Her companion's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open just slightly—his 'uh-oh-I've-been-caught' face. "Yeah, well…I just…" He fumbled for a moment, trying to feign an attitude of nonchalance, then sighed heavily. Buffy could swear she heard him mutter, "Bugger…" under his breath.

With trembling fingers, Spike separated the two bouquets. Now he regretted being in so much of a hurry that he'd stopped the florist lady from wrapping the blossoms in green tissue. _Would've been easier to keep track of two skinny green things than dozens…!_

Taking the handful of lilies in his right hand, he made an embarrassed gesture toward the headstone. "Brought some for Joyce," he mumbled. Then his embarrassment melted away, in the brilliant glow of Buffy's expression.

"Lilies…" she whispered, her eyes soft. "The perfect way to say good-bye to a loved one…"

"Yeah," he responded, mystified. "That's what the bird in the flower joint said. How'd you know?"

Now Buffy's smile was mischievous, and she indicated the floral arrangement she'd brought to the cemetery. "She must use that line on all her customers when there's an apocalypse coming up."

Spike had the grace to look mildly abashed. "S'pose so." He watched her as she turned away to lay his offering of lilies next to her own. _Cor…the way she moves…_

With a mental head-shake, he continued. "Thought about getting some of those for you, too, pet…but then I saw these and, well…" He fumbled his way to a frustrated silence, completely forgetting all the graceful words he had planned to use. Instead, he awkwardly thrust the other bouquet toward her, as she straightened and turned to face him again.

Buffy's mouth fell open. The individual blooms dangled in even rows beneath their supple branches, like oddly-shaped icicles from a winter's eave. Her eyes traced the outline of one blossom: twin blush-pink curves arched away from the spindly stem, tapering down to a delicate tongue of crystalline white embraced by two tendrils of deep fuschia. Another flower was in full bloom, the lush pink lips of the surface petals curled back up over themselves, away from the dangling white core, which was striped with the faintest hint of pale yellow down its middle. They were exotically stunning in their peculiarity…and somehow seemed bizarrely, uniquely _Spike_.

Buffy burst out laughing.

Spike lifted a single tolerant eyebrow. One corner of his mouth twitched just a bit, then gave up its half-hearted battle and rose, curving his lips into a soft, lopsided smile. Her reaction to his gift was exactly what he had expected…and the few moments of embarrassment were worth it, just to hear her laugh.

He cocked his head slightly to one side, listening to the symphony of her. The brassy laughter, the percussive, throbbing heartbeat, the many-toned whisper and crackle of the air in her throat…all overlaid with the delightful sweet-and-spicy scent that was so uniquely Buffy. His eyes traced the lines of her body, and the play of the dangerous muscles beneath her skin as she wrapped both arms around her middle, laughing even harder. Her cheeks glowed pink and her eyes were scrunched tightly shut, half-hidden by the filmy curtain of blonde cascading around her face. Joy animated her entire spirit, transforming her into a giggling night-nymph, an angel of mirth.

He had never seen anything more beautiful.

"You—you—" Buffy's attempts to speak around lungfuls of laughter made her gasp. "God, Spike, irony much? I mean—_bleeding hearts?!?_" Naming the flowers out loud seemed to trigger yet another flood of uncontrollable giggles.

The bleached vampire looked only slightly abashed by his questionable taste in horticulture. He just stood there and watched her laugh, still holding out the ridiculous bouquet…still smiling that soft, sweet smile.

__

It's a good thing it's only Spike, Buffy thought momentarily,_ or else that smile might start giving me warm-fuzzies._

Then his lips thinned ever-so-slightly, instantly transforming the tender expression into something decidedly more rakish. "Well, let's just say the…er, poetic irony appealed to me—in more ways than one." He willed his hands not to tremble as she accepted the cluster of flowers from him, the warm brush of her fingers super-heating both his skin and his heart, all at once. "And they reminded me a bit of you…"

Buffy blinked, staring fixedly at the cluster of green-and-pink clutched restlessly in both hands. The longing in his voice hung heavily in the air between them, and for the first time that she could remember…she wasn't sure how she ought to react.

So as usual, she dodged the issue, seeking refuge in the land of the Speedy Topic Change instead. "So…where'd you run off to, after Harry did his big song-and-dance routine?"

Spike could still feel the heat of her blood, even from several feet away, throbbing in time with the syncopated rhythm of her heartbeat. _Thuh-thump…thuh-thump…thuh-thump._ It was hypnotic, and deadly…like the cheerful candle-flame that charms a moth into its fatal orbit. The simple act of standing so close to her was torturing him, softly and sweetly, like cuts from a thousand flower-petal knives. He shoved his hands into his pockets so she would not see them shake, and struggled to strike a casual pose. He ended up studying the way the moonlight reflected off a particular blade of grass.

"Didn't see much point in sticking around," he finally replied, with a loose shrug that belied the tension in his voice. "Had a bit of thinking to do."

Buffy smiled a bit at that, watching the way a single bleeding heart played across her nervous fingers. "Yeah—there was kind of a lot of that going around." She drew in a breath, then raised her eyes to meet his. "It's…different, you know? I mean, I always figured an apocalypse would get me someday. But I _thought_ it'd be like with Glory—fight the Big Bad, die to save the world, and life goes on for everybody else. I never expected to be sit idly by and watch the Big Bad happen." Then she registered the expression of pain that had flitted across his face at the mention of Glory, and instantly regretted being so flip. "Sorry…I mean—" She broke off with a quick _huff_ of a sigh, and eyed him with an expression of combined amusement and exasperation. "If I tried to tell you that _none_ of what happened that night was even _remotely_ your fault, would you believe me?"

Spike blinked at that, and his voice was matter-of-fact. "No."

"Didn't think so," she shot back wryly.

It was so much harder than he imagined it would be…to stand here with her, and _not_ blurt it all out. Every profession of love…every joke he'd ever wanted to share…every sarcastic point he'd ever wanted to make…every snippet of ridiculously horrible poetry…even the witty banter he'd never gotten to say, back when their only real connection had been the clash of fist against fang. Everything he'd ever wanted to say to her came crowding into his throat, choking him, and suddenly it matter than he didn't need the air…because all at once it hit home that this was the last chance he'd ever have.

__

Ever.

After Glory, he'd spent countless hours of those long summer days, playing and replaying the last _real_ conversation he'd had with her…the one at her house, when she'd re-invited him. Every night he saved her, but every day the might-have-been's besieged him just as thickly. A thousand different words, a hundred different expressions…all the words he hadn't spoken had haunted him just as surely as all the things he hadn't done.

Except _this _time, there was no hope of a second chance…just an eternity in hell, to think of all the things he didn't say.

Only six months ago, he'd chained her up and begged her for a crumb…and then he'd made a promise…and then she was gone…and then she was back. And then just last week, she'd kissed him…and called him her 'best friend.' It was far more than he'd ever hoped for. A privilege beyond a demon's wildest dreams.

And suddenly, it wasn't enough.

"Will you miss me?"

The words escaped his lips before he could stop them…and he instantly hated himself for sounding like such a ponce. Buffy had gone back to examining her bouquet during his short silence, but the lost and wounded tone of his voice drew her full attention back to his face. For the barest of instants, she caught the pleading look in his tortured blue gaze…but then he looked away.

"Wait…what?"

Spike shook his head, silently cursing himself for being seventeen different kinds of fool. "Nothing—never mind."

But Buffy knew him better than that…and on the last night of the world, she wasn't going to accept anything less than the full and unvarnished truth. "No, not 'nothing,'" she countered, her forehead wrinkling into a small, perplexed frown. "Will I _miss_ you? What…kind of question is that?" She faltered a bit, overwhelmed by the roil of thoughts and feelings conjured up by that deceptively simple query.

Spike turned away from her with a jerk, putting his back to her even as his eyes never left the ground. He couldn't look at her, didn't want to watch the disdain rise up in her eyes.

"Forget it." He meant it to sound hard and threatening, but had to wince as he heard the desperation in the words.

He was actually starting to scare her now. He must have some crazy idea in his head about the Annealing, and it was obviously tearing him up inside. She was surprised by how much pain that caused her. Without thinking, she rushed to reassure him.

"Spike…you've got it all wrong! After tomorrow, I won't _have_ to miss you. I mean, I guess I sort of would, if—" she broke off, suddenly wary of getting too deep into things she didn't want to think about. "—but it won't be like that," she finished lamely, groping for the words to explain what no one seemed to understand. "You don't know…I can't even _begin_ to describe how perfect everything will be. It's…it's every moment of pure _elation_ you've ever felt, all rolled into one amazing instant…but then there's another one, and another, and the feeling just goes on for ever and ever…" She nearly lost herself in the memory, in the anticipation. "We'll all be there _together_, Spike—the whole world! And we'll never have to miss _anything_, ever again!"

He could feel all his muscles tighten with longing, as he listened to the pure joy in her voice. Her perfect little heaven…and he'd sworn to himself that he wouldn't darken her last few hours with his own pain…but the clutching feeling in his throat would leave him no peace. He'd only wanted to bask in her golden presence for a few final moments, but the rising tide within could not be held back.

Spike's back was still turned to her when he finally forced the words out around the ache in his throat. "Sounds bloody marvelous." His voice was soft…sad. "And you deserve every last bit of it." He swallowed, and felt his face shift as he worked to bring the demon forth, his brow expanding into prominent ridges even as his canines sprouted into miniature daggers. "But I'm not like you, luv…"

He turned uncertainly to face her, every movement painfully slow and hesitant. His demeanor was that of a man beaten and bruised beyond mortal tolerance, as though the 'big bad' façade he'd sported for so long had become a second skin…a skin that had been agonizingly flayed from his body. When his black-flecked yellow eyes finally met her hazel-green ones, his voice was soft and broken as he spoke thickly around his fangs. "Heaven's not for the likes of me."

The sight of his 'game face' hit Buffy like a physical blow. Suddenly her world was spinning off its axis, and her mind was awash in a maelstrom of thoughts, feelings, memories…all swirling in that deep golden gaze that used to be so loathsomely familiar…

__

«You don't strike me as the begging kind…»

«Look at you…shaking, terrified, alone…a lost little lamb…I love it…»

«I'd rather be fighting you anyway…»

«Guess you're not worth a second go…»

«I swear, I was just thinking of you…»

«A Slayer must always reach for her weapon…I've already got mine…»

«Hey, I'm a superhero, too…»

Even in the midst of her own personal mental hurricane, Buffy took a moment to marvel. Until last week, for those few hours when they were "Joan" and "Randy," she had seen nothing but Spike's human face for months.

He acted so human. Snacking on spicy buffalo wings at the Bronze, baby-sitting Dawn, patrolling with her…he was always right there, being whatever she needed him to be…but real. Mortal. Human. She had almost forgotten the demon was there…

Then she was swamped all over again as she stood there, drowning in a cruel wave of déjà vu…

__

«Angel standing before her, blood trickling slowly from a cut near his eyebrow. His hands clutching her shoulders with fearsome strength. Worrying about her. Freaky assassin-guy lying on the ice a few paces away, in a steadily-growing pool of blood…

Angel refusing to look at her, turning his face away. 'You shouldn't have to touch me when I'm like this.'

Buffy's own hand reaching up, gently cupping his cheek. Pulling his eyes back to her own. Looking at him with a mixture of tenderness and wonder.

'I didn't even notice…'

Suddenly realizing that it didn't matter…that none of it mattered. Slayer. Vampire. Human. Demon. Saint. Monster. Hero. Villain. All meaningless. Because she loved him.»

In that moment with Angel, all the barriers had fallen away, and all that remained was love…in that monumental instant when she had realized that she no longer saw the demon.

And now, with Spike, she was suddenly confronted with the fact that she hadn't noticed she'd forgotten to see…and it changed _everything_. Buffy was sure that her very soul was being shaken on its moorings, and her guts were tying themselves into wrenching knots. Her mouth opened, and her tongue scraped against her palate like sandpaper. She stared into a mournful yellow gaze she barely recognized, and felt her own eyes widen as the significance of his words slowly filtered past her turmoil.

"You—" Her voice dried up. She swallowed convulsively, and tried again. "You mean tomorrow…you won't…" Her eyes burned, and she ruthlessly forced back the tears. "You can't come with us, can you? Because of…the demon." She raised a shaking hand and pressed it against her forehead, as though it might slow the flood of her thoughts. "I didn't realize…I mean, I didn't think…"

Spike closed his eyes at the shock and horror in her voice, and allowed his vamp face to dissolve away. "I know, luv. No one did." His voice was gruff. "'Cept me…I figured as much. And that Herald chap, he said…I was right."

"But…" Buffy's voice was small and timid, like a child desperately pleading for a parent's reassurance that the scary things hiding in the dark are just figments, insubstantial shadows that can always and forever be chased away by the comforting glow of the bedside lamp.

Then something deep inside her awakened, and spoke up.

__

No.

It sounded very sure of itself.

__

NO!

A momentary spark of anger ignited a sudden blaze. It roared to sudden, furious life, searing away the helplessness and the uncertainty, raging against the injustice of Spike's sorry fate.

"No way. They can't…it's not fair!" The flames licked higher, flashing the waves of feeling into steam, consuming her scattered memories of yellow eyes, leaving only crystalline blue amid the ashes.

"How can they do that to you? None of it's _your_ fault—the demon might be _what_ you are, but it's not _who_ you are! And it's what _they_ made you to be, anyway!!" Buffy was well on her way to working up a fine snit-fit, and found she couldn't stand still for it anymore. She spun away from Spike, pacing furiously from side to side as she ranted.

"This is _so_ not right—they're the _Powers_, for god's sake! They're supposed to be the _good_ guys!! So what do they do?!? They _create_ you to be a vampire, but _completely_ different from any of the others—I mean, with the _hair_, and the _coat_, and the sense of _humor_ and everything—and they toss you out into the world armed with this big, fat _attitude problem_ and this _enormous_ capacity to _love_, and _then_ when they decide they're _sick_ of it all, they take you _away_ from _everybody_ who _matters_ to you and _condemn_ you to spend _forever_ in _hell_…_just for being what they **made** you to be?!?!?_"

Spike's eyes were huge in his angular face as he watched her storm back and forth in front of him, her arms flailing the air with manic gestures. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat of her anger, and her hair flared in her wake like a golden cape every time she turned.

__

So upset…over me…?

And the things she was _saying!_ His heart swelled to the point of bursting as she continued to vent her righteous indignance.

"It's _not fair!_ They _make_ you, and then they _punish_ you! And _none_ of it is your fault!! Dammit, Spike—" She jerked to a halt in mid-stride, and whirled to face him. "—they can't _do_ that! If they think I'm just gonna _stand by_ and let them _do_ that to one of _my friends—!!!_"

She was a vision…her face just inches from his own, breathing hard, twin spots of pink high on her cheeks, glaring at him with a dangerous glitter in her eyes…all for him. All because she cared enough about him to _not_ want him sent to hell. If he'd needed breath just then, she would have stolen it.

Spike couldn't help himself. In that moment, he loved her so much that he could swear he felt his heart beat, moving the blood in his veins, flooding his entire body with a euphoric tingle. She filled his field of view, became his whole world. She enfolded him and crept beneath his skin, boiling in his veins and foaming in his throat until he was dizzy with the sense of her…drowning in her. He could no more have stopped the overwhelming rush of emotion cascading through him than he could have bailed out the ocean with a sieve.

His hands seemed to belong to someone else as they reached out and grabbed Buffy's shoulders, pulling her against him. But the lips that met hers, cutting her off mid-sentence with a hard kiss that somehow managed to be sweet and tender at the same time, were entirely his.

__

So hot…god, like sunlight in a bottle…but sweeter…

Buffy's own thought processes came to a sudden, screeching halt.

__

Oh.

My.

God.

I'm!

Kissing!

Spike!!!

(again)

A large part of her mind instantly panicked and went into overdrive, hastily running through the mental catalogue of excellent and utterly logical reasons why she had promised herself after the last kiss—_oh, alright…last **two** kisses_—that she would _never_ let it happen again. But then his lips started to move against her own, and her eyes melted shut at the same moment that her brain started to liquefy like candle-wax in a raging inferno. _Oooh… don't stop…_

An eternity later, when he finally pulled back, Buffy couldn't quite suppress the sudden disappointment that stole over her. His fingers relaxed their desperate grip on her upper arms but didn't entirely let go, cradling her shoulders in a gentle grasp. With his eyes still closed, he rested his forehead softly against hers, and drew in a shaky breath.

"Thank you…" His voice was no more than the barest of whispers, and she could hear it quiver.

Reluctantly, she pulled her head back and pried her eyelids open. They both stood blinking as smoky green met silver-blue. The tremble in her words matched his. "For what?"

He cocked his head slightly to one side, and regarded her with the look of tenderness and wonder that had lately been guaranteed to make her tingle. His tone said that the answer should have been obvious. "For caring."

Buffy's mouth opened, then shut again, as she tried to figure out exactly how she ought to respond to that. A thousand replies skittered temptingly across her mind…and somehow it was the most cowardly of them all that finally won its way to her lips.

"You're welcome."

Her eyes were still locked with his, and she finally had to look away from the naked emotion in that stare. He released her shoulders and scrubbed one hand through his platinum locks, even as she moved to tuck a long strand of blonde behind her ear.

Neither one stepped back.

Then Buffy let out a quick, nervous laugh, almost more air than voice. "Well…I ought to get home. Dawn's waiting for me to pick her up. You know…for the shindig at the Bronze…"

"Right." Spike nodded once—a swift, businesslike gesture that was totally at odds with the way they were invading each other's personal space. "Don't want to keep th' Nibblet waiting."

"Yeah." Buffy tilted her head a bit, then mustered the courage to look up at him out of the corner of her eye. "And it sounds like _we're_ going to go find Mr. Herald-Man. 'Cuz I'm feeling this sudden urge to give the Powers a really _violent_ piece of my mind…"

He raised a playful eyebrow at her. "And you think he might be able to pass along the message?"

"I think he sounds like a pretty good place to start!"

The mischievous twinkle in her eyes was reflected in Spike's, but mixed with a generous helping of awe and bemused disbelief. "You're really gonna try an' kick a little omnipotent ass, just to keep me around for all eternity?"

"Hey, I've said it before, and I'm saying it again. _Nobody_ messes with—"

Her traitorous brain instantly supplied another memory, just to add to the déjà vu reunion between her ears. _«'I've had it—Spike is going down. You can attack me, you can send assassins after me…that's fine. But nobody messes with my boyfriend!'»_

"—my friends," she finished, barely missing a beat. She finally stepped away from him, but motioned with her head for him to follow as she headed for the cemetery gates.

"You realize, pet," he commented teasingly, as he fell easily into step with her, "that I'll likely annoy you just as much in heaven as I do here?"

She nailed him with that impish sidelong smirk again, and his silent heart skipped another unbeat.

"I think I can live with that…"

The pair left the graveyard side by side, their long strides perfectly in synch. There were no eyes but their own to see how they bent their heads toward each other as they spoke, or to notice the way their hands 'happened' to brush against each other every few steps. They left behind the darkness and the awful silence…and the forgotten remnants of three offerings of love, scattered like a white-and-pink quilt over a narrow bed of vivid green grass.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~   


Okay, just a quick author's note. Mostly just 'cuz it's been a while since I made you read one. ;) First of all, a totally huge and far too loud THANK YOU to two readers who cared enough to let me know they liked this story. Thanks and an enormous hug to Rosy Mansfield, who took the time to track me down when I disappeared from the B/S Central Archive and convinced me that I needed to post this story somewhere else so she could read it; and another big shout-out to Learyl, who has so far been my only reviewer (as of this posting), but has been incredibly generous with the praise. Between the two of you, I was inspired to get this story back out of mothballs and do some more work on it. :) Can't thank either of you enough!!!!!

And one other comment, in case anyone else reading this story has noticed…

Yes, there are a few elements of the plot which are VERY reminiscent of Sangga's fic "To Make Much of Time." There is an excellent (if mostly unintentional) reason for that. First of all, that story and its prequel ("Black the Sun") are by far the two BEST pieces of B/S fiction I've ever had the privilege of reading. Sangga, whoever she is, ought to be working for Joss, 'cuz she's freakin' **_amazing_**. If you think this story is halfway decent, go read hers (they're both posted at ff.net). You'll be blown away. Anyways, if Sangga or any of her other fans ever end up reading this, please don't take offense at the occasional similarity. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, even if it's not nearly as good as the original. ;)

I hope to have another couple of scenes done within a week or two…it depends on how soon I can finish my Christmas shopping. ;)

And if you're still reading at this point, PLEASE REVIEW? Even if it's just a sentence or two telling me what you liked and hated, it'd mean a lot to me to know what you think of this. :) Thanks!!!!!!


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